New Beginnings
by Ziams-Turtles
Summary: A Ziam AU fanfic. When Liam leaves his hometown of Wolverhampton to live in Santa Cruz, California, how will he react to his new neighbor living across the hall from him? Rated M for language/some adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I grabbed my coat and headed out the door. I was greeted with a slap in the face by an icy morning wind as I dragged with me personal belongings I couldn't live without. In truth, though, it was mostly just clothes and a few other things to remind me of home.

"Liam, hurry up or you'll miss your flight!" I heard my mum call. She had her head out the window of the car and was waving to me, her arms moving frantically.

"I'm coming!" I replied.

I rolled my suitcase down the driveway of our Victorian home and loaded the luggage into the back of the car. I hopped in with the rest of my family and buckled my seatbelt. My mum turned to me from the driver's seat with tears in her eyes, her mouth opened slightly, and I prepared myself for waterworks that never ended up coming (at least not yet). Instead, she wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, and gave me an awkward hug before she backed out onto the street, and we were on our way.

The ride to the airport seemed to take an eternity as I watched the familiar buildings fly by. Memories of my childhood flooded my mind and overtook my thoughts, and I found myself gripping the armrest far too tightly, my knuckles turning white. Tears welled in my eyes as I fought back the urge to break into sobs, but luckily, no one noticed. As we stopped at a red light, planes could be seen departing the runway. This was really it; I was really leaving Wolverhampton.

Thankfully it wasn't long before we arrived at the airport; I didn't know if I could stay any longer before I changed my mind about breaking away from my hometown. We exited the car and as we were making our way to the large, sliding glass doors, I wondered if I was making the right decision. Was leaving to live in America the right choice to make? Was I being selfish?

My mum must have noticed something on my face, because she pulled me into a warm hug. "It's going to be all right," she said, "You'll do fine over there."

"I know mum," I told her, "But are you sure you'll be okay?"

"No. I don't think so," she started, liquid streaming from her eyes. "But I get it. You need to move on, explore life. Your father and I will take care of things over here so there's nothing to worry about, yeah?"

I felt my knees begin to shake and my arms trembled. I started crying profusely; my face felt wet, my eyes already swollen. My sobs were muffled in the thick cotton of my mum's jacket, and somehow, I managed to choke out a not-so-reassuring, "Yeah."

She released her tight grip from me and I took a step back. I gave the rest of my family a hug, patting them on the back for a moment, before exchanging with them an "I love you". I cleared the tears from my face with the arm of my coat, and stood tall. With suitcase in one hand, and ticket in the other, I took the first steps towards my new life. It took all the strength I could muster just to get past security, and when I turned around I could see the waves and smiles on broken faces from the people I loved dearly. I wasn't just moving out, I was moving across the Atlantic Ocean.

It wasn't long before I loaded my bags onto the belt and as I watched it disappear, I let out a sigh of relief. Of course, I was heartbroken over fleeing town; country, even, but somehow what I was doing just felt right. The attendant informed passengers over the loud speaker that it was time to board the plane, and, with the rest of the crowd, I filled the line waiting to get on. I handed the smiling woman my ticket and she wished me a happy flight.

The sounds of other aircraft taking off could be heard as people piled onto the plane. I took my seat, half of me hoping the seat beside me would be empty, the other half wishing for a kind stranger I could pour my heart out to, like in the movies (silly, I know). I felt my phone buzz in my pocket and I decided it would be best to check it before the plane took flight. It was displayed on the screen that there was one new message from my mum. It read:

"Find a cute boy in America to bring home for Christmas. I miss you already! Love you! xx"

"Sure thing :) Love you too. xx"

I started daydreaming about American boys, but sadly, was soon snapped back to reality when a message came through the intercom.

"Everyone please make sure your electronics are turned off, the plane will be ready for departure soon…"

I made sure to turn my phone off and just ignored the rest of the announcement. I glanced to my left, and noticed that someone had sat next to me (how long she had been there, I didn't know). She was fair skinned, with wavy blonde hair that fell slightly past her shoulders. Her eyes were a vibrant green and a small patch of freckles dotted her face. The glasses she wore were small and thin (they weren't for fashion, but rather, to enable clear vision), and she was dressed in a light green tank top and white washed jean shorts on. Her sandals were black with small white flowers on the straps, and her outfit went together well and complemented her eyes.

She turned to me with a seemingly genuine smile and said, "Hi, I'm Amy."

"I'm Liam," I said, returning the smile. "Looks like we'll be sharing a considerable amount of time together."

"Yup," she replied, the same grin on her face, "Why are you—"

She was cut off as our heads were pushed back forcefully from the strength of the strong airplane. Once up in the air, she giggled, and I laughed along with her.

"As I was saying," she continued, "Why are you headed to Santa Cruz?"

I felt a little awkward conversing with a random stranger about my life, and it must've been practically written across my face, because she quickly apologized.

"Sorry, I shouldn't be asking questions like that," she said, embarrassed, her head slightly tilted downwards.

"No, it's fine," I told her with a reassuring smile. "I'm actually moving there from Wolverhampton. My aunt owns an apartment complex and I'll be renting a flat from her. What about you?"

"I'm actually returning from vacation. I was visiting some friends in Birmingham."

I hadn't even noticed her American accent, but it was now prevalent as she spoke about her fun times in England. The conversation seemed to be going well for the first few hours, and I couldn't help but think I had made a new friend.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I awoke to a light thud on my left shoulder. My eyes slowly opened, and I yawned sleepily, looking around in confusion. I saw that Amy's head had fallen onto me as she rested during the long flight, and that was fine. I didn't really care, but I hoped that she wouldn't think that it…meant something, when she came to. I could feel her body starting to slip forward, and I quickly grabbed her arm as she sank towards the chair in front of her. I gently laid her back against her seat, and sighed.

I checked the time, and, sadly, there were still two hours left of the flight. Amy and I had been talking the entire time (until we fell asleep, of course), and now that she was sleeping, there was nothing to do. The whole thing had gone quite well really; the conversation never hit a dead end, there were no dreaded, awkward silences, and our senses of humor went hand in hand.

We had mostly talked about her adventure in Birmingham, or her ex-boyfriends (I admit, that was a little strange), and I explained to her the various things about England that she didn't understand. Eventually the subject of our talk turned to the males around us. She had whispered and pointed to a man of average height, with dark hair and dark eyes. He was no older than me, and his skin was pale, his face buried in a book.

"Isn't he cute?" she had asked in a joking manner. I don't know what kind of answer she had expected from me, but I wasn't ashamed of my sexuality, nor was I going to hide it.

"Too pale for my tastes," I had told her. At first she looked a little confused; disappointed, even, but her expression soon returned to normal and she paid it no mind. It continued in that way for probably about an hour as she asked me questions about the nearby passengers. I selected a few that I found mildly attractive (there were no boys on the ride that were all that great looking), and she agreed.

It wasn't long after that we had both dozed off. We exchanged numbers so that we could keep in touch after we came to the ground, and then passed out. Impatient with nothing to keep my boredom at bay, I checked the time once again. Only ten minutes had passed.

I sighed once again, and set my face in my hands. Reality had not yet had the chance to crash down upon me and shower me with fears, discouragement, and discontent about my future. I was still worried that I would have difficulty finding friends, or a job. Sure, I wanted to have fun like any other nineteen year old, but I wasn't stupid. The only reason I decided to move to America was because I trusted myself to be responsible and mature enough to handle the problems I would face. In my family, I was known as the "sensible one".

I could feel beside me Amy as she stirred. Her hand jolted suddenly, but not forcefully, and she took in a large breath. She rubbed her eyes and yawned loudly, her mouth outstretched.

"You're awake," she said, groggily.

"Yup. Woke up about fifteen minutes ago."

"Oh. How much longer are we on this stupid plane?" she asked.

"Bout' two hours." She looked disheartened and her eyebrows furrowed as she learned of the time left on the noisy and uncomfortable aircraft.

"Damn," she said. "I guess I'll just go back to sleep." She turned away from me and rested her head against the stiff (but supposedly comfortable) seat.

I decided against dealing with the pressures of my life in a confined public area, and chose sleep as the only real alternative. I folded my arms in my lap, and I soon drifted off into a deep slumber.

My head was thrown against the window and my eyes snapped open. I immediately grabbed it, rubbing the already sore area with my tired hands. A message was broadcasted throughout the plane, informing us of the landing that was just seconds away. I turned to Amy, who didn't look too happy to be up either, and we were tossed around as the expansive piece of machinery neared the ground.

My thoughts were jumbled and my mind was clouded as I stepped off the plane, for I had not quite woken up yet. The winds were cold, and the sky was dark. I later learned that the time difference had landed us at three AM in the morning. Amy and I made our way to the baggage claim area, and found our things. Once on the streets, waiting for a cab, I found that she was going to live across town from me. She flagged a man down, and as she stepped in, shouted.

"Call me tomorrow…well, today, and give me your address so we can meet up!"

"All right!" I called to her, and waved goodbye.

I called a cab driver over, and gave him directions to my new place. As we drove along (he was devilishly fast, too), I saw that the city was dull, save for several gas stations and twenty-four hour marts that hadn't closed their doors. We passed the (from what I could tell) Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. I was surprised to see that nothing was open; the rides were still and unmoving, and the shops and attractions were barred up. Considering it was extremely early in the morning, though, I guess it made sense.

The man dropped me off and I paid him a fair amount of money, and felt my wallet screaming already as it began to be emptied. The handles on the building were cold; freezing, actually, and I struggled to open the door, partly because one arm was occupied, and partly from exhaustion. I was ready to cry (exaggerated, I know, but I was tired, hungry, and jetlagged) when I saw that there was a tall flight of stairs. I picked up my suitcase with lethargy, and practically dragged it up the steps. Knowing I would be arriving in the wee hours of the night, my aunt had sent me a key to my room in the mail. I was thankful as I kicked off my clothes, leaving only my boxers on, and collapsed onto the couch.

There was a knocking at my door, and I checked the clock that sat across from me on the counter (it was ten AM). I got up, slowly, and trudged to the entrance of the room, my feet feeling heavy and leaden. I opened it to see a boy who couldn't be older than twenty. He had dark olive skin, and his chiseled features were visible through his form-fitting shirt. His sweatpants hung low on his body, revealing a small patch of plaid that could've only been his undergarments, and as my eyes traveled back up his torso, I saw only more flawless features. His smile was warm and inviting, his eyelashes beautiful and thick, his hair perfectly styled into a dark quiff.

"Hi," he said, "I'm Zayn. I live across the hall in 2A and I just came to say welcome…but…is now a bad time?" he asked with a somewhat puzzled look on his face.

"What? Oh…oh!" I realized that I was hardly dressed, covered in sweat, and looked awful. My hair was messy and appeared to be more like the nest of some dirty rodent and my eyes were half-shut. "Sorry. God, sorry," I said, my head moving in small, frantic movements, "My flight landed this morning and I…sorry. Could you come back later? I'm really not decent right now and—"

"Of course," he said, politely cutting me off. "Maybe we can get a coffee or something." He smiled lightheartedly and took the few steps back to his apartment. I quickly shut the door (a little too quickly, in fact, it hit hard and loud) and I nearly collapsed to the floor in disbelief. I had just talked to the most gorgeous boy I had ever laid my eyes on and I wasn't even presentable enough for a simple cup of coffee. My stomach was filled with a feeling unlike any other before, and I pinched myself to make sure that it wasn't all just some crazy dream.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I needed to get ready, and fast. I still had to talk to my aunt before heading to my coffee date with Zayn and—

No. It wasn't a date, it couldn't be. It was just a small gesture of welcoming from one guy to another. I wasn't going to let myself think that it meant anything more. I quickly rushed to the bathroom to take a shower and turned the water on. I flung my underwear on the ground and jumped in; I made a small yelp when the ice cold drops slid down my back. It took me a few seconds to figure out which side of the faucet was hot and which was cold, but when I did, the warm water felt amazing as my ossified muscles loosened.

What I thought was a quick wash turned out to be a thirty minute long bathing session. At least now, though, I smelled fresh, was clean, and near ready to go out. I unpacked the essentials for getting ready: hairdryer, deodorant, toothbrush, shaver, etc. (they were the only items I had taken out of my suitcase so far), and got to work. I made sure that my hair sat in sandy, golden wisps on my head and that my face was smooth. I ran my fingers over my chin and sideburns to ensure that I hadn't missed a spot, brushed my teeth, and pulled on some jeans, along with a simple, gray tee shirt.

I double checked that I had my keys, wallet, and phone before I headed out. I knocked on the wooden door of 2A and was answered with a, "One minute!" from Zayn. I dialed my aunt's number as I waited for him to get ready.

"Hello?" she answered from the other line.

"Hey auntie, I was letting you know that I made it in okay last night. I'll be over to your house later."

"Okay sweetie, I'm glad you made it in safely. How was your flight? Twelve hours is a long time to be stuck in one place. Did you get enough rest or are you still jetlagged? Because you don't have to come over today if you're too tired, you know. You can always—"

The door swung open and Zayn appeared, grinning with keys dangling in his hand.

"No, I'm fine," I told my aunt. I looked at Zayn and mouthed "One minute" and held up a finger. "I've actually gotta go know, okay? But I'll be in later, I promise. Okay. Yeah. Okay. Bye." I hung up the line and looked at Zayn apologetically.

"Sorry," I said, "Had to let my aunt know my flight made it in all right. And about earlier—"

"Don't worry about it," he replied. His voice was cool and calm and it made my heart melt. He waved his hands a little too, as if he was clearing away the problems with a swipe of his finger. "There's a Starbucks down the street," he continued, "If you wanna go there?"

"Sure, but you'll have to lead the way." He chuckled a bit and nodded.

I followed him as we made our way down the now-busy streets of Santa Cruz. What had once seemed so drab and solemn earlier was really a bustling metropolis. The Starbucks wasn't down the street like Zayn had said (it was actually a few corners away) but it still was a short walk, and I didn't mind. I got to get a better view of the city, and, so far, I enjoyed spending time with him.

"So what brings you out to the great town of Santa Cruz?" he asked, his arms outstretched as if he was describing something grand.

"Just moved here from Wolverhampton," I said. I had only now noticed that he had a Bradford accent. "You're from England as well, then?" I asked him with a questioning look, raising my eyebrows.

"Yeah. I've been living here for about a year. Not all that exciting, but the weather's nice, and the boardwalk is always a good time," his tone, though a barely discernible difference, had slipped into one of slight somberness.

By now we had arrived at the small coffee shop and I was glad to feel the cool air within. We ordered our drinks (he ended up paying for me, called it a "welcome gift") and took a seat at one of the tiny round tables. After a bit of lighthearted jokes and fun topics were discussed, his mood, along with his expressions, grew heavy.

"It's hard, yeah?" he asked. "I remember when I moved here…" his hands were wrapped around his coffee and he was twiddling with his thumbs. I watched him, tried desperately to make eye contact, but his gaze was held downwards. "It fucking sucked," was all he said.

When he finally glanced up at me, a tear was visible streaming down his face. I wanted to know what had happened that hurt him so badly, I really did, but I knew that in time he would tell me (if he pleased, it was none of my business anyway), so for now I settled with wiping the tear from his cheek with my thumb (it was a risk, of course, but he didn't react badly) and he smiled diffidently. I tried to show sympathy and empathize with him, but it was more than difficult to do because I was clueless about his past.

We shared a moment of silence in the small café, and I couldn't help but feel a bond between us had been forged.

At first I thought I was imagining it, but his face had started moving closer to mine. He gave me a soft peck on the cheek, ever so slowly, and his lips were soft and warm and inviting and all I really wanted to do was rip off his clothes and get in bed with him. Nice way to ruin the moment, Liam, I thought to myself. He stood up, and he blushed (and so of course I blushed), and he checked his phone.

"I've uh, I've got to get to work now. Thanks," he said. To be honest, I really had no idea what he was thanking me for, or how I managed to help in any way. Regardless, I tucked the precious thought away and, on impulse, called Amy as soon as he was out the door.

"Hey," she answered.

"Hi," I said. "Can you meet me at my place soon?"

"Sure. Text me your address," she replied.

I wasn't positive as to why I called Amy, or wanted to see her, but I guess it was because she was really the only person I could talk to about what had just occurred. I headed back to my flat (I also called my aunt on the way and told her I was too tired to make it), and tried to clear my clouded mind. It was to no avail, of course; it was hazy and confused and I was filled with that same feeling as before, only this time, it was tearing and pulsating through my veins uncontrollably and my desire for Zayn spiked considerably.

"It was just so…strange," I said, "It was like a date. But I mean, it couldn't have been right? We just met this morning. I don't even know his last name…I'm not supposed to be feeling this way, not yet. I shouldn't want him like this. It doesn't even mean anything, does it? I'm overreacting. Tell me I'm overreacting," I was talking a mile a minute and I stumbled over the words that continually got caught in my throat. When I managed to spit them all out, Amy looked at me with a concerned look.

"That is strange, are you sure it wasn't a date? Because it sure sounds like one and normally two friends, well, two guy friends, especially ones that just met, don't…kiss, when they hang out."

"I don't know. I have no idea what it meant or what I should do or if I should act on what I'm feeling because the only thing I'm sure of is that I want him more than I've ever wanted someone before. Is that bad? Is it wrong to feel this way about him so soon?"

"You're like a sex machine!" she cackled and her nose crinkled as she laughed at my ramblings, "I'm not going to have to coach you through all of your encounters with guys, am I?" she giggled more at that and her face turned red as she shook tremulously on the couch.

"This isn't funny," I sighed, and my brows furrowed.

"I know, I know," she said, her face returning to her previously business-like structure. "I'm sorry. Look, it's normal to feel this way. From what I've heard, solely from you, he's hot and he's sexy and he's cool, and just a bit shy. I would kill to meet a guy like that and if he kissed me, whether it be on the cheek or on the mouth or God knows where else, I would probably faint. So just be thankful you've had the chance to meet him, and see where it goes from there. Hang out with him some more, casually, and just enjoy the ride."

"So I was overreacting?" I asked.

She laid a hand on my shoulder. "Sweetie, you looked like you were about to have a heart-attack. Now," she said, standing up, hands on her hips, "shall we get some of these boxes unpacked?" (Earlier in the year I had transported belongings I would need to live comfortably in the new space; I was surprised I hadn't yet tripped over any of them in my unfamiliar home).

"You don't have to help," I told her.

"I know. I want to," was her answer, and I left it at that.

We got to neatly removing the items and placing them on the various structures throughout the room. The nice thing about renting a flat from my aunt was that she had bought a few essential pieces of furniture to make my life easier. It wasn't much; just a small, faded blue couch, an end table with a lamp, an average sized, rounded, wooden table fit for eating meals, and a beat-up looking fridge. There was also a small counter in the kitchen on which I placed a few pictures from back home (was a kitchen counter an odd place for that?). I still needed a bed, but for now, the couch would have to do.

By the time the packages were emptied, it was around eight PM.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can get you to eat?" I asked Amy, as she was walking towards the door.

"I'm good, but thanks," she smiled. I pulled her into a tight embrace before she had the chance to slip out of my flat.

"Thank you," I said, "For today."

"Any time."

She was out the door and waved as the lock clicked into place. I laid down on the couch, and felt my stomach growl. It dawned on me then that my apartment contained not one morsel of food. Nothing. I decided I was too tired to go to the store (it's not like I knew where one was, anyways) and settled for figuring out my food situation the next day.

I let my body fall into a long-awaited sleep and dreamt about none other than Zayn, the boy with olive skin, luscious hair, and mysterious eyes, whose voice was enticing. I had known him less than a day, and I was already falling for him. Even in my dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Within the next two weeks, I barely saw Zayn. We had the occasional greeting followed by a smile when we saw each other in the hallway outside our flats on our way to work (I landed a job at the Safeway just around the corner from my building), but neither of us had made an attempt to engage in any further contact. It saddened me to know that Zayn probably wanted nothing to do with me, and that I really had overreacted to the situation in Starbucks. Or maybe he was just shy? He did blush after it happened…

There was a light knocking at my door and I wondered who it could be; I wasn't expecting anyone, and it's not as if I had any friends other than Amy. It was slightly disappointing to only have one person to hang around with, or talk with, or do anything with. Of course, I still had my family, and I loved them more than anything, but with them it was different; they lived on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

I made my way to the door exhaustedly (I had not done anything strenuous, I was off work at around six and it was a Friday. It was just one of those days), pulled the latch out of its place, and cracked the door open. My face lit up when I saw who had been tapping on my door. It was Zayn.

"Hi," he said, smiling apprehensively in his royal blue shirt and khaki pants that was his uniform at the local Walmart. He wore a nametag that had his signature written with grace across its synthetic surface, and it was dotted with the leftovers of peeled smiley faced stickers that had, at one time, resided upon it. "I was wondering if tomorrow, if you wanted to, well, if you had the day off?" he asked, finally putting the words into place.

"Yeah," I returned the grin, "I have the whole weekend off. Why, what's up?"

"I wanted to head to the boardwalk tomorrow, but I had no one to go with. And I mean, you're still pretty new here, I figured you hadn't been there yet. That I could, you know, show you around." He held a shy look on his face as he finished his sentence and looked at me with his deep, hazel eyes.

"Yeah, sounds awesome," (Did I really just say awesome?) "What time are we heading down?"

"I was thinking maybe eleven? I'll probably end up sleeping in and could use the extra rest, if you don't mind?"

"All right, cool. Just come and get me when you're ready."

He smiled again (he was smiling a lot today), and crossed the short distance to his flat. I closed the door, slid the latch back into its proper place, and sighed. Over the past fourteen days, I had tried desperately to forget what happened between Zayn and me. Since that day there had been little to nothing said to each other, and I finally was starting to think that I should quit wasting my time.

The sad part was that I thought I had actually made some progress, but here I was, being lured back into the time-consuming pattern of daydreaming, feeling sorry for myself, and then daydreaming some more to make up for the self-induced pity. I really did feel stupid about how I had been feeling, but those things can't necessarily be controlled; or, at least, it was extremely difficult to do, and I just had not been applying enough effort.

A part of me felt as though I had been holding onto any glimmer of hope there was. A smile here, a wave there; I tried to add it all up in my head to make it actually mean something, anything. As long as it involved Zayn acknowledging my existence, I was content. But this, this was something better. It was something big—compared to the miniscule contact that had previously been made—and uncontrollable and irreversible expressions of glee broke out across my face. The more I thought about it, the more delighted I became.

I fantasized about the upcoming outing I had planned with Zayn. I imagined him holding my hand as we walked in the soft, loose sand, chasing the salty waves of the sea. I pictured him playing a few of the ridiculously expensive and outrageously unfair carnival games, handing to me a stuffed animal of my choice. Maybe it would be a dog, or a bear, or some other animal that had no relevance to its whereabouts in Santa Cruz. We would have a snack (possibly a corndog or some cotton candy), and sit under the cool shade of the umbrella that waved in the brisk winds. And when night came, we would stop and lie down, wherever we were, without a care in the world, and just stare at the stars. I would keep him held in my arms, his head nestled in the crook of my neck, his hair tickling my chin. We would share the warmth, feel each other's heartbeats, and inhale the sweet aroma of our perfumes…

Stop it, I told myself, forcing my mind back into reality. By routine I glanced at the clock: it read eight PM. Eight? Had I just envisioned an entire date with Zayn, standing stupidly by my door, for an hour? My phone buzzed on the kitchen table and the screen projected a light across the dimly lit ceiling. I made my way to the sleek, white device encased within an Otter Box (I had picked it up a couple of days ago. It was great; it was made of three pieces of overlapping durable plastic and rubber that were two different shades of blue: one dark, one light. It was like an industrial case for my iPhone). The screen read, "One new message: Amy"

"Hey! Are you busy tomorrow?"

"Yea, I'm going to the boardwalk with Zayn!"

"Ohh, then we can hang some other time. Ttyl lover boy! xx"

Leave it to Amy to engage in playful banter about my (hopefully) soon to be boyfriend. I craved for his body to be against mine, and I pondered the idea of introducing my sexuality on our trip to the beach.

Morning came and I went through my daily routine: wake up, take a shower, have breakfast (often just cereal, my favorite was Lucky Charms), brush my teeth, shave, and finally, style my hair. I was trying to look my best; after all, this could be my chance to win Zayn over, and I needed any help I could get. My hair was perfect, my face clean-shaven, and my hygiene taken care of. All that was left was to pick an outfit.

It may not sound difficult, but I struggled with finding an appropriate set of clothes to wear to the hot and sunny surf of the California coast. I wanted something that would be light, and casual, but not a tank top. A tee shirt would be nice, as long as it fit well (and by that I mean outlined my best features) and reflected the sunlight. It took at least twenty minutes, but I eventually came to a slim-fit sky blue Hurley tee which had written across it plainly "Hurley" in white letters. I paired it with white, silky, athletic-style shorts that reached just below my knees. I checked my phone for the time and it was five minutes to eleven. Ready just on time.

As expected, a knocking came at my door, and I smiled a bit cheekily. I slid my bare feet into some sandals I had and turned the handle to see Zayn. He was, even in beach clothes, stunning.

A purple shirt with shortened sleeves hung on his torso and hugged his body in a way that I nearly threw myself at him before I came to the conclusion that would be inappropriate. He was dressed in black cargo shorts, and the colors mixed well. He too, had a pair of sandals on. We were like matching-sandal-boyfriends, if those ever existed. Minus the boyfriend part.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yeah," I answered. And we were off.

I stepped into his car, and I couldn't describe it any further except that it was small and green (I really wasn't a car person), and settled in. Zayn backed out onto the, surprisingly, empty street and drove towards the boardwalk. It took us about fifteen minutes, the ride filled with jokes and laughs, and I quite enjoyed myself.

As it came into view large crowds were visible as they took up most of the space on the beach. The pavement was hard and obviously smoothed over so that guests could walk down its pathway and participate in the attractions without injuring themselves. It was easy on my feet, and not physically taxing at all. Zayn and I exchanged glances of joy and excitement as we made our way along the stretch of gray material which looked out across the ocean. It was a beautiful day, the sun shining, its rays warming us to the bone; the sea glistened in the distance, a marvelous sight.

After a few hours of playing games (Zayn won at the water racing attraction, the one where a clown gets sprayed with water until a balloon blows and pops. A girl no older than five had started crying when she lost, but he handed over the small blue puppy that he received, and she squealed and her mother thanked him. I just about collapsed at how adorable the whole thing was), going on the ferris wheel, and riding a few roller coasters, my stomach growled to let me know it was time to eat. We decided on a restaurant called the "Dipper Diner". We took a seat at one of the comfortable, padded booths and the waitress asked for our orders. I had brought to me a delicious, fresh, grilled chicken sandwich, and Zayn was given a large, crisp salad topped with croutons, cabbage, grated cheese, and many more colorful items that filled his plate. I chose this time to ask a few lingering questions on my mind.

"About the move," I started, "What happened that made your time so awful here?" Zayn looked up with fork in hand, midway between his plate and his mouth, terror in his eyes. I knew it had thrown him off guard; frightened him, and I quickly tried to turn the subject around.

"Never mind, don't answer that," I said, "I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business."

"No." he stated, setting his fork on the plate, "No, if we're going to be friends, you ought to know. But you have to promise not to judge me, okay? Don't laugh or…just don't make fun of me. All right?"

"I would never," I reassured him.

"Well, all right then. All my life I've had…feelings, for," he paused. He swallowed, took in a deep breath, and blinked his eyes several times before going on, "For guys." He stopped, and forced himself to establish eye contact with me. I only returned to him a face that held a deep understanding, void of the crude snickers he expected. I nodded my head, slightly, letting him know it was okay to continue.

"It was- It was something I struggled with all my life. My parents—hell—my whole family, would never allow it. I hid from them; from everyone, and it wasn't long before I found myself addicted to alcohol. It numbed the pain, and it was the only way I could feel at peace." He was opening up, speaking with more haste, more confidence.

"My mum found out, and of course she informed my father. We had a family 'discussion'" he used his fingers to form quotes around the word 'discussion', "but I was too drunk to control my thoughts. This was about a year ago, mind you," he said. He puffed a bit of air out of his cheeks and laughed nervously about what he was to say next.

"I got angry and I just told them. I stood and I slammed my hands on the table, and I screamed it in their faces. '_I'm gay_,' I had said, '_I'm your faggot son_!' I yelled it over and over and over again, until my voice was hoarse. As I had expected, they kicked me out—" the waitress checked up on us once again, impatiently, her foot slightly tapping the ground as she awaited the bill to be paid. We handed her the necessary dollars, splitting the bill, and continued the conversation outside.

"Anyways, as I was saying," he picked up where he left off. "They gave me a day to pack all my things, and forced me to leave the house. I was nineteen at the time, and so it was legal for them to throw me out. You want to know the worst part?"

"It gets worse?" I asked, shocked. He nodded.

"They bought me my plane ticket. Fucking _paid_ for my flight, and gave me enough money for three months' rent! Told me that when I had changed my mind I could come live back home. Haven't heard from the ignorant pricks since. That's why it was so bad. When I moved here, I mean. I was left with no one in an unfamiliar world and I struggled with depression. I at least wasn't drinking, but I still had long, sleepless nights and never-ending mood swings."

"Wow." By now we were walking across the expansive sands again, and the sun was beginning to set. There was a long pause before he spoke again.

"I've never told anyone that before," he said, happily, "It feels kind of good to get it all out."

"I can't even imagine what that must have felt like. The pain, the suffering…my family has always been so supportive of me being gay and—"

Whoops.

"What?" Zayn stopped dead in his tracks and turned to me. His expression was unreadable, but it was definitely something I had not seen from him before.

I blushed a little as I formally came out to him. "Yeah, Zayn. I'm gay too" (I really wished I had formed a better sentence because it sounded stupid and childish of me to say it so blatantly).

But there was no time for thinking, no time to do anything but act, because within seconds, Zayn's lips crashed against mine. It was forceful and aggressive, but I could tell it spurred from a deep passion within him, and I returned the kiss. I glided my tongue over his bottom lip, and he granted me entrance to the rest of his mouth. I suddenly realized that we were in a public place, surrounded by people of all ages, and quickly pulled away from him. I looked away to be sure that no one was staring, and then turned back to Zayn, who seemed confused.

"We're in public," I said.

"Oh, right," he said, gazing at the ground, obviously embarrassed.

"Although…" I continued, "I would like to try that some other time." His head snapped up, his eyes darted to my lips. He leaned in closer and he wrapped his arms around my neck. The kiss he planted this time was a painfully slow, drawn out thing, and it was just as good, if not better, than the forceful embrace just seconds earlier.

"Does this mean…?" his mouth disconnected from mine.

"Is that what you want it to mean?" I asked, trying not to push any labels.

"I do. Boyfriend…my _boyfriend_. Liam, my boyfriend…" he laid his head on my chest as I enveloped his body within my arms. We stood there for a while, wind blowing in our hair, gazing at the sunset, and I could feel the soft breaths of Zayn against me as I held him close.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

After the glowing rays of the orange sun had disappeared behind the sea, Zayn and I had shifted to lying down on the beach, backs resting against the delicate sands. His hands were behind his head, and one knee was propped up, the other extended. I had the urge to hold him, hold him in my arms and never let him go. But looking up at the twilit sky in the peaceful ocean breeze with him left me a feeling of joy that penetrated deep into my heart, and I suppose that was just as fulfilling.

Much, if not all, of the crowds had fled to the warmer, more exciting part of the Boardwalk with its flashing colors and blinding lights that danced on the pale concrete. Unlike them, I preferred to be here, on the chilling minerals of the beach with my new, adorable, charming, heart-melting boyfriend. _Boyfriend_, I thought. _I could get used to that._

The tiny grains of sand beneath my hand shifted, and Zayn interlaced his fingers with mine. I glanced to the side to see a wide smile clinging to his lips, and it was effortlessly reciprocated. His grip was irresolute; hesitant. I squeezed his hand a little to reassure him and restore his confidence, and already he seemed more at ease. The slowly rising, luminous moon casted a beam of light which rippled on the drifting waves of the surf. It was a humble reminder that our time was limited as the darkness of night approached.

Zayn sat up, lifting me with him, and pulled me into a warm embrace. He rested his chin on my shoulder, his tufts of hair blowing gently across my face in the winds.

"This is perfect, Li," he said. "Can I call you that? Li, I mean." he asked.

"Mmmm…" I closed my eyes, trying to commit the special moment to memory. "Li," I repeated, "I like it."

Zayn inhaled, and then exhaled, releasing his warm breath on my neck. It gave me goose bumps and sent a tingling down my spine.

"I know this is stupid," he began, and I could picture a small frown form on his face, his eyebrows furrowing, "But what is your last name?" he finished awkwardly. And to be honest, the whole thing _was_ awkward. Neither of us knew each other's surnames.

"Payne," I tried to say as naturally as possible, and asked him, "And yours?"

"Malik," he stated plainly.

Liam Payne-Malik. Or would it be Liam Malik-Payne? I guess it didn't really matter, we weren't getting married. Not anytime soon, anyways.

We shared a long moment of quiet, simply enjoying one another's company. It was nice; relaxing; stress-eliminating. I allowed all of my problems and worries to slip away into some un-monitored part of my brain and replaced them with thoughts of the strong arms that encased me. I leaned my head back, Zayn laying a soft kiss in my entangled golden locks.

He smiled as he whispered into my ear, "Kiss me."

I twisted out of his hold and my lips traveled to his. Our mouths met, affectionate and packed with passion. Entrance to my mouth was immediately granted and our tongues were battling for dominance as my body pushed closer to his. He gradually fell back on the sand, his arms around my neck, mine sliding up the small of his back. We moved in sync, hearts beating in conjunction with each other as they picked up speed.

We rolled, and Zayn was above me at once. A grin developed on his face, and a low chuckle escaped him. It rolled through my bones like thunder, echoing within me and pushing me to go further. But it couldn't happen like this; not here, not in the uncomfortable sand while still in the view of the public. For a moment my eyes opened and in the distance, but not too far off, a fairly large-built man stood. He appeared to looking in our direction, watching…

Zayn's arm deliberately reached for my trousers, tugging at them lightly.

"Zayn," I gasped, breaking off the kiss, "We can't do this here." I laid a hand on his chest as he peered at me in the dim night and his hand left my shorts.

"You're right," he sighed.

His legs straightened out as he stood up from the ground, tall, shirt billowing, shorts flowing. His eyelashes fluttered, a tired look in his eyes. His head turned down at me, and he offered me a hand. I took it graciously, and he pulled me up.

We made our way down the beach, hands linked, listening to the lapping of the waves as they traveled on shore and back out. Our feet left barely visible footprints as we trudged along, both walking with debilitation. I had no clue as to what time it was, but I knew that I desperately needed sleep. The walk back to Zayn's car, though tiring and now physically straining, was quite enjoyable, despite the fact no words were spoken between us. Only smiles were exchanged, and each one warmed my heart.

When finally out of reach of the dazzling bursts of color, which blinked rapidly at the attractions in never-ending, obnoxious patterns, we hopped into Zayn's car once again. The leather seat was cold on my skin and I regretted not bringing with me a hoodie, or some other item to keep me warm. Zayn turned the keys in the ignition, the engine flaring up. The sound startled me, and I flinched. Zayn laughed at my antics and rested a hand on my shoulder, driving out of the still-cramped parking lot of the Boardwalk.

The ride home was a voluminous blur in which all I could recall was the hum of the gas-powered vehicle as it smoothly moved along the street. My eyelids drooped and my head sagged, eventually needing to be held by propping it up in my hand. I yawned sleepily, and my gaze shifted towards Zayn. He looked nervous; tense, and his eyes darted from his rear-view mirror and back again to the street. I knew something was wrong. It was blatantly obvious, but, for one: I didn't think it was that big a deal otherwise Zayn would have told me, and, two: I was too tired to even pretend to care. All I wanted to do was get home and sleep.

And that's what I did.

Zayn carried me up the steps of the complex (this was after we had arrived, of course), like a thoughtful and caring boyfriend.

I slid out of his arms and unlocked the door to my room. I wished him a good night's sleep in a drowsy voice that was rough and plagued with fatigue. Thankfully, I had enough energy left to stumble into my bed, collapsing onto the newly washed sheets and the comfortable pillows, immediately giving into the sleep that had been pestering me for hours.

***Three Months Later***

Things had been going quite well. I was promoted at Safeway from bagger to cashier, held a growing friendship with Amy, and kept a steady romantic relationship with Zayn.

In the short time we had been together, I learned him inside and out. His favorite foods, how he usually refused to wear his much-needed glasses, how he enjoyed horror flicks, his tendency to constantly look in the mirror, how long he took to get ready, his fascination with his hair, his impeccable fashion sense; there was an unforeseen depth to him that lay hidden behind his shy and timid nature, but after scratching the surface it poured from him and my mind soaked it all in.

We had gone on nighttime dinner dates, or went to the beach, or sometimes just cuddled up on the couch together for a good snog as a movie played in the background, unwatched. While the majority of our times were fun and comedic, holding with them tinges of romanticism, Zayn had been increasingly on edge lately.

There were times when he got the same frantic look in his eyes, like he did on the night of our first date to the boardwalk. It could happen anywhere; in the grocery store, at the mall, even in our own flats. Every time I confronted him about it he told me he felt as though he was being followed; watched, by some suspicious figure. I really had no idea what he was talking about, but I cared for him deeply, and so I would rub his stuff muscles that had tensed from his anxieties. I tried my best to comfort him, but it was often futile.

I was off work in an hour, and I decided then that I would talk with Zayn. We had never had the chance to formally sit down and discuss the situation, for every time I brought it up, he managed to cleverly maneuver his way out of the conversation, and change the subject.

I arrived at Zayn's flat and knocked on his door. He opened it within seconds and leaped at me instantaneously. He showered me with kisses that went up and down my jawline, the tip of my nose and around my forehead and down until finally reaching my mouth. When his long-awaited lips had arrived, our mouths were amorous and ardent, complete with a profound, burning lust and I had to pull away, though unwillingly, as footsteps could be heard sounding through the corridor.

We giggled mischievously as he yanked me by the arm through the entrance to his flat. Still laughing and smiling, and now, kissing again, we slowly advanced backwards until I fell against the sofa that stood in our way. Sinking into the cushions in hysterics, Zayn toppled over me. I tackled him, pinning him to the floor. We wrestled, the tide turning several times over before I was finally in control and looking down at him, his arms held above his head, body squirming slightly.

"Let me up," he laughed.

"No, I don't think so. Unless…" I paused, pretending that my thoughts were trailing off.

"Unless?" he asked, curiously.

"Unless I get a nice kiss."

"Done," he answered. We met halfway and our mouths connected again for a short few seconds until I decided to release my hold over him. Once up, he dusted off his white silk shirt that contrasted with the dark tones of his body. His pajama bottoms were dotted with the "Yin and Yang" symbols and his feet were bare. He scratched his head, hair bobbing back and forth with a questioning look on his face.

"Do you want anything?" he asked. "I can make you something for dinner. Have you eaten yet?"

"Can you make me a sandwich?"

"Out of lettuce. I know you like lettuce."

"Hmm, soup?"

"I only have tomato…"

I sighed. My pantries were practically empty, and Zayn didn't seem to have anything I liked either.

"Oh, I know what I can make you," he said with glee. "French toast!" he grinned and sort of squealed at the thought. I didn't know why, but he took pleasure in making my meals.

"For dinner?"

"It's delicious. Just try it, will you? I make damn good French toast."

I agreed to let him prepare me this new breakfast-for-dinner experience. He scurried around the miniature kitchen, grabbing eggs, bread; all the ingredients needed. His living space was soon filled with the smell of syrup as he flipped the golden pieces of toast over and pressed the spatula down against them. My mouth watered and the time passed far too slowly for my cravings.

He carried the plate with food piled high and set it in my lap. He poured me a glass of water and handed it to me, along with a fork.

The toast had been pre-cut into small rectangular and square shapes, and it was easy to load them into my mouth with quick succession. The flavors spread across my tongue, each taste bud screaming for more as the food slid down my throat. Zayn stood behind his counter, arm propped up using his elbow, head resting in the palm of his hand. He smiled tenderly as I grew disappointed that my plate was emptied much faster than I imagined.

"Zayn," I said, mouth full with the last bites of food, "We need to talk." I figured that now was as good a time as ever to just get it over with.

"About?" He made his way to the couch and then back to the kitchen, taking the silverware with him, unmistakably unnerved by the statement but doing his best to appear calm as he turned the sink water on.

"About your…panic attacks."

He sighed. "Is that what we're calling them, now? I'm telling you, Li, someone has been following me."

I looked at him ambiguously, doubt plastered across my face. "Have you ever seen anyone following you?" I asked him.

"…No." he said, uncertainly. "But that doesn't mean—"

"Zayn." I interrupted him. I knew him too well to know that he was lying through his teeth. "There's something you're not telling me."

"I swear, sometimes I feel like you can read minds, Li," he exhaled a deep breath and continued scrubbing the various dirtied tableware. "I think," he paused. "I think my dad's in town."

"What?" I blurted out, surprised to the point of near disorient.

"There's always this…dark-skinned man that I see everywhere. I think it's my dad, but I haven't seen him in over a year, and most of the time I'm not wearing my glasses and he's too far off for me to be sure. But I'm pretty positive it's him. I just, I don't know why he'd be in town." When he finished his face flooded with relief. His shoulders relaxed as he wiped the dishes clean, soap covering his hands.

"Why didn't you just tell me that?" I asked, headed towards him, walking past the lamp that rested on the end table.

"I didn't want to bother you," he said, voice faltering. He was now in the midst of washing one of his assorted mugs with pictures of adorable puppies covering its surface, back still turned to me.

"Hey," I said, wrapping my arms around his still waist. "We're dating, Zayn. Did you forget? I'll be there for you through anything." He smiled; a cute and fragile thing and I kissed him on the cheek. "Always."

"Promise?" he asked shyly.

"I promise."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"What are you even freaking out about?" Amy asked me.

"I just, I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help him, you know? Am I supposed to stop him from meeting with his dad or do I let him do this on his own?" I fidgeted in the wooden chair and its legs scraped across the floor, creating an ear-splitting sound. I took a sip of my coffee and set it back down on the small, round table barely fit for two.

Several days after Zayn had confided in me, the mysterious man finally took it upon himself to engage in a conversation with him. And, of course, Zayn's suspicions proved to be true; it was, in fact, his father. His name was Yaser Malik. For some reason unbeknownst to me (and Zayn, too, for that matter), he had decided to pop back into his life, appearing out of nowhere and claiming to want a relationship with his distant son.

Weeks had passed since then.

"Come on," Amy said, "Give the guy a chance. Zayn is his son after all; maybe he really does want to bond with him."

"Bullshit!" I said hotly, slamming my fist on the table. I received a few looks of disapproval and resentment from other customers about the inappropriate word and reduced my voice to a whisper. "You don't just show up out of nowhere after nearly a year and a half of no contact and suddenly want to be friends, or whatever the hell it is he's going after. Especially not after _he's_ the one who shoved _him_ away in the first place. It just doesn't work like that; I don't give a damn who you are." I finished my little "speech"—if one could call it that—and took a long drink of the hot liquid imbued with milk and cream and sugar and other fattening ingredients.

"Liam, don't you think you're being a little unfair?" Her face had a concerned look. "You don't even know him. You're letting this get to you too much, and—"

I shook my head, swallowing my coffee. "No," I spat. "There's something not right about that man. He wants something. I just don't know what yet."

"Why don't we go to the mall or something; you have the day off right? You seem like you could use something to occupy your time."

I sighed and nodded. Amy was right, as always. I needed to fill my thoughts with something other than the repulsive man who was, sadly, Zayn's father. I supposed that maybe I was being a tad bit unkind, but whenever his presence was brought up in conversation, my veins pulsated, thrummed and quivered with anger and my mind became clouded with animosity. My hatred for him ran deep, and he had only been involved in my boyfriend's life, for, what? Three weeks? If I didn't find an activity to keep calm then I would end up losing my mind.

The mall was an expansive pavilion lined with shops, kiosks with beyond annoying salespeople, and chains of stores that sold various forms of food. There was an Abercrombie & Fitch, Hollister, Forever 21, Tilly's, Sears, Macy's, Cinnabon, Dairy Queen, Rubio's; the list was endless. We wandered around aimlessly a bit, spending most of our time in Forever 21. Amy found handfuls of capris, shirts, and even assorted bras that she stacked on top of my arms. When we finally reached the checkout line, I had collected more than enough bizarre stares.

After spending two hours in one store alone, I grew hungry. We made our way past several workers who attempted to flag us down multiple times, stepped onto the escalator, and took the short ride up the moving steps to the second floor.

As the food court came into sight, I froze in my tracks when I spotted an all too familiar silhouette. His back was turned to me, but as we came closer there was no doubt in my mind who it was.

It was the man that filled me with a seething anger. It was Zayn's father.

"Shit! Amy, give me your glasses!" I pulled them from atop her head where they were sitting and quickly placed them over my eyes. I was sure that I looked unbelievably ridiculous, with my plaid flannel shirt, faded jeans, and a pair of Vogue sunglasses.

"What are you doing?" she asked, holding back laughter. I pointed discreetly to a cramped Panda Express in which he was standing behind the counter.

"That man," I told her, "Is Zayn's dad."

"So what?" she asked, pulling the sunglasses away from me. "It's not like he knows who you are."

"But—"

"No buts," she said sternly, holding the eyewear out of my reach. "It's not like he's going to do anything to you." She stopped. "Let's go talk to him!" her voice raised, devious and filled with mischief.

No, no, no; God no. The last thing I wanted to do was look at him, let alone talk with him.

But it was too late. Amy was dragging me by the arm, and I knew that any resistance would be met with scowls, and she would somehow make a spectacle out of the whole thing. I found it better to go along with whatever schemes she conjured up in her mind than to defy her.

She released her grasp upon arriving in the line of people waiting to order inexpensive Chinese cuisine. I didn't know what Amy expected me to do, or if she even wanted me to order. She knew I was not a fan of Chinese food—at least not Panda Express—so I hoped that she would do all of the talking.

"Hello, what can I get for you," Yaser hesitated when his eyes met mine. "—Today?" he asked. Amy ordered a considerable amount of food, and I figured if I really got hungry enough, I would share with her.

"And what about you?" he more of demanded, rather than asked, gruffly.

"Oh, nothing. I'm fine." I smiled at him. There was nothing he could do; nothing he could say that could do any damage to me.

Or so I thought.

Amy paid him the required money and, when leaving, Yaser apparently had one last thing to say.

"Liam," he called. My head snapped back at the unfamiliar voice announcing my name. "Stay away from my son."

A grin spread across his face as my eyes filled with terror.

I rushed up the familiar steps to Zayn's flat. I hoped he was home. God, I hoped he was there; I needed him now. Needed him desperately. I knocked, and I waited. I stood there, unmoving, looking like a fool for what must have been ten minutes.

No answer.

I took the necessary steps across the hall to my apartment and entered in agony. The air was heavy with solemnity and tears welled in my eyes.

"Stay away from my son," he said. But he wasn't done.

Oh, no, he wasn't done there.

"I've talked with my son and I can assure you he's not a dirty faggot like you," he had said. "He doesn't care about you," he had said. "Watch yourself," he had said.

Amy told me it wasn't true; told me not to worry because it was all just some twisted and screwed-up façade to separate Zayn and me.

It didn't work.

I was terrified. More than terrified, in fact, about two things. One being: The monster Yaser himself, and the creepy way in which he came to know my name; my relationship with Zayn. The second mortifying idea was that Zayn cared nothing about me, nothing at all; just like his father told me. And that was far worse.

A part of me knew it wasn't true. A part of me in some corner of my brain tucked so far away it did nothing to comfort my emotional distress. The only thing that could rescue me from my pain was Zayn.

Zayn.

What had happened? Where was my resolve; my courage, to face Yaser? Hadn't I been ready beyond doubt to stop his advancing hold over my boyfriend? Wasn't I going to protect the one I loved?

Love. Was this love? I didn't know.

If this was what everyone fantasized about, wished for so badly; love; well, it didn't feel so great. My heart ached and my eyes were swollen, and honestly I didn't know why I was so fragile.

So suddenly broken, so weak.

Yeah, this love thing sucked.

I cried for hours. I cried and cried and cried until my eyes burned and then I cried some more. I used several boxes of tissues and my hair was disheveled after running my hands through it so many times. I called Zayn, called him so many times…

None were answered.

Then a knock. Several knocks, actually, in their usual "tap tap" pattern that only one person did. Zayn.

I ran to the door, nearly ripping it off its hinges as I flung it open. Zayn looked happy. Until he saw my face.

"Oh, my God, Liam. What's wrong, baby? Liam, are you okay?" Silence. "Say something, please." His eyes stared, pleading, begging for me to say something. Anything. He had never seen me this way.

"N-no…" I choked as the rest of the words caught in my throat. Zayn took the liberty of coming in himself and shutting the door behind him. I hugged him, hugged him so tightly that he moaned a bit before becoming accustomed to the pressure and then he reciprocated the touch of affection. My sobs were muffled in his neck, the tears quickly soaking through his thin cotton shirt.

And then, slowly, ever so slowly, my soul calmed. My core, once shaken, began to ease and return to its formerly solid state, and my clench on Zayn lessened, until finally, my grip released altogether.

"God," I said, "I'm sorry. Your shirt's wet, here, let me get you one." I grabbed him a piece of clothing and returned to the living room.

"I have a better idea," he said. He held in his hand a thick blanket, and he was dressed in nothing but his colorful boxers. He gestured to the couch, and I stumbled over to it. He sat down first, extending the blanket as if to say, "join me", but shook his head until I undressed to bare skin and underwear. I gladly joined him on the faded piece of furniture; welcomed his embrace. He had not asked about my state of mind, which was a good thing. I would tell him tomorrow, when I was stronger. Because now, though I wasn't shaking or tearing myself apart, I still felt like I could break down at any moment.

For now I settled with being encased in Zayn's protective, warm arms as he wrapped the blanket around us both. I laid my head on his chest, could feel the beat of his heart. It was calming, and our legs soon became intertwined as he stroked my ruffled hair with his hands. Before drifting into sleep I promised myself that I would never let this happen again. I would never snap easily as a twig, and I would stand up to Zayn's father.

To anyone, if it threatened the well-being of my boyfriend.

I awoke to a tickling breath on my neck, and smiled. I glanced at the clock, being sure to make minimal movement so as not to wake Zayn. Too late.

"Hi, beautiful," he said, voice raspy and filled with tiredness that drove every boy—or girl—crazy.

"Good morning," I replied, sweet and delirious with an early morning daze. Zayn blinked, a half-grin, half I'm-about-to-pass-out look on his face, his hair messy. There were bags under his eyes, his shoulders sagged.

"Did you not sleep well?" I frowned. He wrapped one arm partially around my neck, the rest laid across my chest.

"I woke up countless times, and I checked to make sure you were okay. Do you want to tell me what happened now?" he asked, not quite confident in how I would react.

The sun wafted in through the slits in the blinds and projected a dusty haze across the room that fit my clouded mind perfectly. I stared at it for a while, wondering what to say. I could tell Zayn anything, right? Even that his father had threatened me in a way that scared me to death?

"Zayn, I…" My words caught.

"You can tell me anything. You know that, right?" his words were reassuring. Lovely words to hear.

"I went to the mall yesterday," I said. "And I saw—met, your…dad."

"Oh," he said, tone slipping into his obvious discontent with the situation.

"And he threatened me. And it scared me to death, Zayn. He knew my name, he knew I was dating you, but that wasn't the worst part." The words spilled from me like a geyser that had burst after the pressure had built for a long time. "The worst part was—"

"Are you sure this was my dad?" He didn't believe me. It was displayed across his face, hidden behind his words.

"Yes, Zayn, I'm sure. I'm not stupid." I was already irritated.

"I never said you were," he sighed. "It just doesn't sound like him. The old him maybe, but not the new him."

"There is no 'new' him, Zayn. Do you know what he told me? He called me a 'dirty faggot', told me he was one hundred percent positive you were straight. Told me you didn't care about me. Told me to 'watch myself'."

"He would never say that," was his only response.

I couldn't believe it. He ignored everything I had told him. I pulled myself from his arms, stood up. I walked to the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of orange juice. Zayn looked up at me, bothered by my actions. He didn't need to ask to know what I wanted.

"I'll talk to him about it, okay?" he said, trying to convince me of his father's innocence. "I have to get going to work now, all right?" He got up, throwing on his clothes.

"Okay." I said. "Why didn't you answer my calls?"

"I, uh…" he paused. "Things were busy at work."

He shut the door behind him as he left. He should've known not to lie to me. I expected him to, after five months of dating, tell me the truth.

Something was terribly wrong.

**Happy Mother's Day**


	7. Chapter 7 Part One

Chapter 7 (Part One)

Zayn called.

It was too bad everything he said was all part of some complex lie that had been put into place, and his words were meaningless to me. He was too "tired" to come over. He got off at eight PM and he couldn't walk across the hall from his flat and say "Good night, babe, I love you," and give me a kiss?

I wondered if I was being too unfair. He deserved a relationship with his father, right? Of course he did. But should it come at the expense of our connection? Our bond? Our love?

That is, if he loved me back.

It wasn't uncommon to find me deep in thought, wondering if I was good enough for him. Because, honestly, he was drop dead gorgeous. Flawless features, impeccable style, and perfect, hazel eyes that I could get lost in all day. His hair was always stunning, even when it was not molded with product into its usual jet-black quiff. His voice was intoxicating, and his smile filled me with happiness.

And then there was me. Hair the color of sand, eyes bland and brown. My lips weren't alluring like his, and my faded flannel shirts and jeans didn't match up to his varsity jackets and tight pants. I still loved Toy Story and I was afraid of spoons. I was the one that got good grades in school, the one for every one else to copy off of, and snicker at later. I was just some loser that happened to fall in love with a boy far out of my league.

Maybe that's why Zayn and I hadn't had sex yet after five months of dating.

Laughter escaped my lips in the solitary confinements of my humble apartment. I had been wallowing in my own self-pity all day and it was foolish. Funny, even.

I shook the thought from my mind and drifted to mindless topics until a door slammed. I looked out the peephole and saw Zayn. Zayn?

That wasn't right. He was supposed to be tired.

I followed him on a short walk in the cool summer breeze on the streets of Santa Cruz. It was pitiful, but to be frank, I was quite desperate to see where he was headed. My pursuit ended quicker than I thought when he suddenly stopped and turned to enter the Starbucks (the same one we had talked at). Memories of the day flooded my mind: Zayn first opening up to me; the kiss.

Whatever he was doing couldn't be so bad, could it? It was just Starbucks. The worst thing that could happen was he burnt his tongue on hot coffee. He was probably just grabbing a cup to wake up, and then he would come and say good night to me…

He sat down. He pulled up a seat and plopped onto the wooden chair across the table from none other than his father. Zayn shook his hand, and Yaser gestured to the woman sitting next to him. I suppose it was better to describe her as a girl; she was around the age of eighteen, bleach blonde hair, horrid fake tan. Makeup was caked across her face and everything about her was pretentious. She touched Zayn's hand, smothered it under hers, and giggled. Her body lurched forward slightly as she grinned and laughed about something that had been said, and, apparently, had been funny too.

But Zayn had not pulled away. He simply sat there, returned the smile, and glanced at his father, who in turn, looked out the window. I panicked and tried to hide, clearly visible in the expansive windows, but it was too late. He spotted me and snarled. His lip was curled back, wolf-like, and he was eyeing me viciously. I froze, staring back at him with fear. Zayn watched his father confusedly, and turned his gaze towards me. Upon making eye contact, his face grew alarmed, and he rose out of his seat, hands on the edge of the table.

I dashed down the bustling, bright streets toward the apartment building.

Zayn darted after me, running and screaming my name.

"Liam!" he called. "Liam, wait up!" he gasped for breath.

"For Christ's sake Liam, fucking _stop_!"

I halted with tear-filled eyes. My hands balled up into fists and I felt helpless. There was nothing I could say, nothing I could do, to get the thought out of my head.

Zayn was cheating on me.

"What do you want?"

"It's not what you think, Li—" he rested a hand on my shoulder.

I tore it off, pushed him away from me, hurt in my eyes.

"Don't tell me it's not what I think, Zayn. I saw you, I'm not stupid." My words were cold. "And I'm done being lied to!"

"Li—"

"Don't call me that."

"Liam." His voice was hard. "Listen to me, okay? Just listen. Shut your mouth for _one_ second and let me explain."

For a moment, it was quiet between us. Cars rushed by across the pavement, some leaving skid marks in their wake. The honking horns, the beeping crosswalks; it all added to my extremely muddled mind.

"Liam, I was just meeting my dad. I planned to talk with him about your confrontation with him. And the girl, the girl, he just…I don't even know. He did it last time, too. He brought some fake-looking girl with her boobs hanging out and he tried to win me over with her. I didn't want to tell you because I wasn't sure what was going to happen. But trust me, Liam; I wasn't planning on doing anything with them."

A silence hung in the air.

"No."

"No? What?" he asked, baffled.

"No, Zayn, don't try to pull this crap with me. You could have told me; _should_ have told me."

"But—"

"And yet you didn't. Two months ago we had the same problem, Zayn. The same _fucking_ problem! I let it slide that time because I figured we had moved past that; grew, in our relationship. But I guess I was wrong."

"Liam, come on, you don't mean that…" tears spilled from his eyes, lips quivering as he stared at me with pleading eyes.

"I meant every word." My voice was much more malicious than I had meant it to be, but there was no taking back what I said. I spun on my heel and walked off, wind blowing in my hair, leaving him shaking and sobbing in the middle of the sidewalk. His leather jacket billowed in the gusts as he watched me advance down the street. My jaw clenched as I held back the cries, and I hated myself for what I had done.

But I felt worthless; abandoned, and I was tired of it. While Zayn still gave me butterflies, caused me to whither in emotional satisfaction and made me beyond happy, he had betrayed my trust more than once now.

**Happy Mother's Day**

It was time to put an end to the suffering.


	8. Chapter 7 Part Two

Chapter 7 (Part Two)

A week passed. Seven days without seeing Zayn. No talks, no texts, no phone calls. No hearing his voice, no listening about some crazy customer he encountered at work. Nothing to make me chuckle and grin with delight as he held me in his arms, and it was killing me inside.

Had I made the right decision by ending things so soon without a second thought? Breaking it off without a clear explanation from Zayn?

No, that wasn't true. He had given me a completely reasonable answer, I just hadn't accepted it…and why not? Stupid, stupid Liam, I thought. You weren't thinking straight.

No logic.

No rationale.

Nothing but your stupid, clouded mind and your ridiculous feelings.

You had it all, and you managed to screw it up like always.

It brought back a handful of memories of my past. Year twelve of my schooling: my first boyfriend. Kisses, hugs, everything Zayn and I had. Only, when he left me, he took something else with him. Something meaningful.

I could remember the night vividly, painful remembrance seeping back into my mind.

I could remember the pants, the whispers, the touches. The oh-so-believable "I love you," after it was all done. He told me he had to go; that he would be back.

He lied.

He left, stealing my innocence as he slammed the door behind him. I struggled for the rest of that year in coming to terms with the fact that my virginity had been lost to a good for nothing piece of shit like him. Much, if not all, of my time was spent in my room, tearing myself apart at my own stupidity for believing his words.

But that was done. Years ago, and I had moved on. Yet, still…

Was that the reason I felt so suddenly scared of my relationship with Zayn?

I drummed my fingers on the armrest of my couch as I bit my nails. I needed to fix things, but I didn't know how. It was like I was searching for a way out of some deep, dark cave, blindfolded and tripping over rocks and slipping on loose pebbles. I would take a few steps, lose my footing, fall, and be back at square one all over again. I had no idea of how to gain forgiveness from Zayn. I was absolutely and completely clueless.

How was I supposed to take back the harsh words I had said to him? The things I did? I told him it was done for good, practically spit it in his face and walked away. The state of suffering I had left him in was unbearable to think about, even now. My eyes grew red, brimming with tears that threatened to spill over, and it was all a downward slope from there.

I quickly relapsed into the same depression as before, and the one before that, and so on. It had come at random, unannounced times during the day and had overtaken my body for the past week. There was no escaping it; no way of halting the rooted despair and desperation that so often now plagued my heart. I was shattering like I had years ago.

But this time was different. This time, I wasn't the one rejected. I was not the one used and thrown away like a piece of trash.

I could still fix this.

Poor Zayn. I winced as I thought about my actions; the sorrow and the agony that he undoubtedly felt. I pondered once again ways in which to bring him back in my life. Did I go and see him at work? No, that would be uncomfortable; far too public. Did I call? No, this was something that needed to be done in person.

It was tough to come to a decision, and hours passed. Ideas were written on sheets of paper, all crumpled up, and then tossed in the trash. Pens ran out of ink, notebooks were emptied. Until finally, finally I came to a conclusion.

It would all start with a bouquet of roses. They would be delivered to his door, and the card would read: Let's talk. Love, Liam. Simple. Effective.

He would reply, in some way shape or form, and even if he didn't, I wouldn't give up there. I would text him, call him, knock on his door, wait for him to get home from work; I would try so hard he would be forced to give me another chance. And then I would apologize: tell him I was sorry for all of the unintelligible things I had said to him. I would beg, if need be, despite the embarrassing notions that accompanied it.

Just one last chance. That was all I needed to make things right.

Morning came and, as it did every day, the sun pilfered in through the half-closed shades. My head jolted up out of a deep sleep, and I looked down to find that I was still sitting at the table in my kitchen. The pen was still in my hand, sentence on the paper unfinished. I glanced at the clock, and it read: 10:30 AM.

Almost time for work.

I arrived and clocked in, as usual.

"Liam." It was my boss.

"Yeah, boss?" I turned, facing the short and pudgy man. His hair was thinning, the bald spot on the back of his head growing with every passing day. He held a clipboard and a pen in his hand, fat fingers gripped tightly around them. His stomach proceeded past his belt, hanging over his khakis.

"You don't seem like you're doing too well, today."

I'm not, I wanted to say. And I haven't been for the past week.

"I'm hanging in there," was my reply.

He sighed. "I can't have you looking like that, Liam." He glanced up at my mop of poorly styled hair and frowned even more. "Just go home, and when you come back tomorrow, make sure to get rid of your sour mood." He quickly waddled away, leaving me no chance to object to being sent home.

I really did not want to go back to my apartment and sit in the bleak melancholy that all but suffocated me. My job, though quite pitiful, was the only stable and organized thing in my life at the moment, and it was nice.

I made my way towards my car sluggishly, nearly being run over twice. I was thankful that I always kept an extra pair of clothes in the trunk of my new car (I had already forgotten the name of that, too. I really was not a car person). It was some blue piece of junk I had picked up for a few thousand dollars at a lot selling used automobiles. Of course, I had some help from my mum and dad with the payments.

There was nothing to be done at home, or anywhere, for that matter, and so I headed for the one place that could, more than anything, have a chance to bring me some solace.

The pavement was smooth and pale, just as before. It was sprinkled with families and people of all ages, screaming and giggling as they won prizes and ate ice cream with their loved ones. I looked out across the blue of the ocean and a fraction of peace finally penetrated the thick layer of depression that outlined my mind. It started to clear, the fog fading from my thoughts. Not completely, and not swiftly, but it was a start.

I watched the sapphire waves of the sea drift as they glittered in the sunlight. A faint smile perched my lips, and I moved to a tall slab of concrete and sat, surveying the sands and the Pacific Ocean. My feet hung off its edge and the cool coastal breeze carried the scent of salt through my nostrils. For the first time in what felt like much, much longer than a week, colors and sounds seemed clear; thoughts and visions were distinct, not all just a big, hazy blur. It was like looking out at a bright blue world after moving out of the industrialized city, where clouds of smog permeated the skies.

Suddenly, a small boy around the age of five came running towards me, fast as he could. I recognized the curly blonde locks of hair that fell around his face, the familiar green eyes.

"Hi Liam," he said, "Whatcha doin'?"

"Just watching the waves. Aren't they pretty?" I pointed to out to the expanse of deep blue.

"Lemme' see" he said, not tall enough to peer over the concrete. He tried to climb it himself, but I was worried he would fall and get hurt. I lifted him up and set him in my lap securing my arms around his waist.

"Whoaaaa!" he exclaimed. "You can see so far!" he turned to me, eyes lit with amazement.

"Isn't it neat?" I asked. My voice was more shrill than normal; appropriate for a young child.

"Yeah!"

He looked back to the ocean, Amy finally catching up to him. She panted hard, resting her hands on her knees.

"Jackson!" I told you not to go running off like that!"

"But sis, I'm okay. I just wanted to say hi to Uncle Liam," he said, facing her.

Since when was I his Uncle?

Amy pouted. "Next time you want to say hi to Uncle Liam, let me know before you take off. Can you do that?"

"Okay." He said, returning his eyes to the waters.

"I'm sorry, Liam, but I need to use the bathroom. Can you watch him for a minute?"

"Sure," I told her.

The silence between Jackson and I was short-lived, as it always was with young children.

"Liam, where is Zayn?" he asked, innocently. He had once met me when Amy stopped by, and Zayn had been there, by chance. He was cute, Jackson; wondered why we were holding hands. He didn't know two boys could be dating. He was only five, after all, and so his questions were out of pure curiosity. No judgments, no harassment.

"He's not here because I told him to go away for a while."

"Why did you do that?"

"We got into a little fight."

"That's not very nice of you," he said. "You should always be nice. Zayn is special to you, isn't he?" he asked.

"Yeah, buddy" I chuckled and ruffled his hair playfully. "He is."

"You should talk to him again. And tell him I say 'hi'."

I smiled. "Okay, I will."

Amy had returned now, and our conversation was quick; she had to get back to her apartment to make Jackson dinner. He recently had moved in with his older sister, as their mother was put in jail for drug abuse and their father died of cancer. I spent a lot of time with Jackson, acting more like a role model for him to follow (an Uncle, in his words); Amy said he needed that right now. She was going through a far more difficult stage in her life than I was, and we had talked about it quite a few times. She was strong, Amy.

She thanked me for looking over him, and they were off. Jackson waved his little hand in the distance and I waved back.

Why couldn't my life be so simple, so easy, so carefree, like Jackson's?

I stayed in the same spot, legs dangling, until the stars were visible overhead. I had watched the sunset as people came and went. I was alone, but it was nice having to time to think; to sort out my thoughts.

I made several decisions while on the plain slab of concrete. The first: I was going to get Zayn back as soon as possible—that had technically already been decided, but my determination was stronger now than ever—and the second: I would stop being so closed off.

He would hear my past, and try, at least, to understand why I acted so hurtful, so… detrimental. Screw the flowers and the fake romance. It would be the truth, the honest to God truth, and then, and only then would I ask for his forgiveness. I knew that it was unlikely he would take me back, and I knew that I would probably be rejected, and forced to move on. And it would suck, it would really, really suck, but I had hope, and that was reassuring enough for now.

I headed down the Boardwalk on my way back to the parking lot. I passed the attractions that flashed in the same patterns as when Zayn and I had been here. Together. My hands were in my pockets as my feet dragged along, and I knew I must have appeared lonely and grief-stricken, but I was in fact quite the opposite.

I was calm, serene; even a little optimistic, and I was thinking of Zayn and his beautiful personality. The way that he was so bashful and shy, and how the littlest and simplest of things could put his soul at ease. "Fancy is great," he had once said, "But I love nothing more than a quiet night at home with you." How I missed the days when those things could be said. The days before the tension, before the distance, before Zayn's father. I had blamed him all for this ordeal, Yaser, but in truth, the problem had begun much sooner than his entrance into our—into Zayn's—life.

I had never wholeheartedly trusted Zayn. Whenever he was not with me, I would worry. I would stress and I would pace and I would question whether or not he was even coming back. I had no reason to distrust Zayn (at the time); he was never unfaithful and would never hold anything from me. We used to tell each other everything. How our day went, what we did at home, what we ate for lunch.

When did all that change, exactly? When had I been the one to cower away in fear of our progressing relationship?

I was unsure, but I was willing to accept the responsibility of my actions. Willing to admit to myself that all of this wrongdoing, from the start, was my fault; not Zayn's, not Yaser's, not anyone's but my own. And that was strangely okay with me.

Because I had already put it behind me; had already moved on and decided I would be a better boyfriend. I would be more caring, more accessible, and more loving than ever to try and restore the broken pieces of what we once had. I was ready to heal my connection with Zayn.

I only hoped he was ready, too.


	9. Chapter 8

I arrived at my flat at around eleven PM. Before opening my door, I listened for a moment to see if Zayn was awake, or if he was even home.

Silence.

I huffed and entered my apartment, slightly disappointed that he didn't seem to be there. He could've been sleeping, I supposed, but it made more sense that he was still out doing…something. Ever since the breakup, he had begun to come home later and later at night, obnoxious and stomping up the staircase with ostensibly leaden feet. I worried he was out causing trouble; or worse, drinking.

Pangs of guilt shot through my brain, wrapping around my entire cognitive process and then back again. Everything but the thought of a drunken Zayn left my mind, and my hands began to tremble.

This was crazy; I was crazy. I sucked in large gulps of air and released them outwards, bringing myself together once more. I couldn't let this happen again, especially not so soon after achieving such a consummated inner-peace. I eased back into my former composure, breathing light, thoughts definitive once more. I grabbed a half-eaten, hearty sandwich complete with condiments, meats and cheeses from the fridge and sat down at the kitchen table. My stomach screamed for food; I hadn't eaten all day.

I had just finished the last bite and was still chewing when loud footsteps echoed through the hallway outside my flat.

Stomp. Stomp.

Stomp.

Pause.

Stomp stomp.

Knock knock.

Zayn?

It was definitely him. While the knocks were lethargic, slower and much less precise, it was no doubt his unique pattern of scratches and taps. I made my way to the door, brushing off crumbs and leftover morsels of food before opening it and peering into the hall.

Zayn stood, swaying back and forth, dressed in a dark leather jacket with an inconspicuous checkered pattern that circled the collar. He wore a gray shirt underneath, which displayed four squares, each a different shade of white, black, or gray. His jeans were dyed heavily, yet faded around the knees, and were slightly baggier than usual. A pair of dark sunglasses covered his eyes, and he smiled when he noticed me standing in the doorway.

"Leeeeeeeeeeeyummm!" he said, aroused. There was a putrid odor of alcohol that was prevalent on his breath as he cried out my name, and my nose scrunched at the smell.

"Give me a hug Leeyummm!" he tackled me to the ground then, and, despite the strong scent of sweat that masked his normally-thick perfumes, it was quite enjoyable being held in his arms again. He pecked me several times on the cheek with his lips, and once on the mouth, but the reunion was brief.

I knew it couldn't happen this way; not when he was incapable of thinking clearly. It would be too manipulative, and I did not want to take advantage of him.

"Zay—"

"I missed you Li," he said, staring hard at my facial features. Strangely enough, it was a sentence said with conviction; it wasn't slurred, wasn't wronged under the influence of alcohol. It seemed real, and a tangible sense of security overcame me. He brushed a lock of hair away from my eyes, and stared into them, regardless of the fact that he was wearing sunglasses. I pressed my lips to his passionately, and his return was sloppy and wet. We rolled over, I now on top of him, face held in my hands. His arms were wrapped around my neck, and his mouth tasted of cheap liquor as my tongue explored its depths with an incredible, burning lust that seared my veins.

Stop this, Liam. Not here, not now. Not like this, a voice told me inside my head. I knew it was right, and I reluctantly broke off the kiss, panting. Zayn looked disappointed; sad, even, as our faces drifted apart.

"Why'd you do that, Li?" he asked, seemingly hurt.

"I'm sorry, Zayn, but you're drunk. It can't happen like this, I'm not going to take advantage of you like that."

"And you wouldn't remember any of it, anyways," I mumbled.

"Li—" His breath was cut short, and he gasped for air. I immediately got off of him, afraid that I may have been forcing his air passages closed with a hand, or a knee, or some other body part.

"Zayn, are you all right?" I asked, but he wasn't paying attention. I lifted his glasses and observed his pupils. They were dilated, obviously, but his eyes seemed to look through me, rather than at me. Still waiting for an answer, I sat him up and lightly shook his shoulders.

No reply.

I had read something about this on the internet, I was sure of it. I concentrated hard, trying to pull any and all knowledge on the subject of alcohol poisoning out of my brain. I knew that symptoms included: dehydration, confusion, lowered blood sugar, difficulty of breathing…were these severe enough for a patient to be hospitalized? I had no idea how much alcohol Zayn had consumed, or what he had consumed, for that matter…

I couldn't take any chances. Not with Zayn, my boyfriend—friend—whom I still loved and cared for deeply. I clumsily hoisted him into an upright position, and dragged him along. I decided that was an inefficient way of transporting him, and asked if he could find the energy to hop on my back. He did somewhat of a nod before jumping up, and I secured my arms under his knees. Slowly, we made our way out the door, down the hall, and, upon reaching the long staircase, paused. It suddenly looked so much higher, a lot less wide, and far more dangerous than it ever had before.

I knew it was the only way out, though, and the thought of any damages coming to Zayn at my expense pushed me to go on. Carefully, I placed my feet on each step, one at a time. It took several minutes to reach the bottom, and by then his breathing was irregular and weak.

"Hey, Zayn." No response. "Zayn, hey, baby; shit—" Would he notice what I called him? No, of course not, he was drunk. "Hang in there, come on."

He was slipping downwards to the floor; I shrugged him up using my shoulders, and it seemed to bring some life back into him. His hands, dangling around my neck and on my chest, twitched and gripped my shirt.

I kicked open the door, almost falling over in the process, and stepped gracelessly onto the street. He slid off my back and onto the ground now, cautiously, to see if he could stand on his own. He stumbled, holding onto my hand tightly, all the way to my car.

He plopped into the passenger seat, and I buckled him in. His head lilted and drooped to the side, but the start of the ignition in the automobile caused his body to snap to attention.

"Zayn? Can you hear me?" I asked.

"Yeah…Li, I can hear you…" he answered. "I don't feel so good…"

I drove out of the parking lot and onto the streets, ignoring the speed limit on our way to the hospital. I feared that if he fell unconscious his breathing would stop altogether, and so mindless topics were discussed between us. I could have been overreacting; probably was, in fact, but that didn't stop my foot from being slammed on the gas pedal the entire ride.

Finally pulling into the near-empty lot of the hospital, I slammed the door of the car and made my way to theother side of the car. I unbuckled Zayn from his seat, picked him up, and carried him in my arms through the sliding glass doors of the medical emergency center like some damsel in distress from any Disney movie that had ever been made. I glanced around the quiet waiting room, and thanked the lord that there was little to no one there. Zayn's legs shook as I sat him down in one of the empty chairs in the waiting room. I told him I would be back in a moment, and caressed the side of his face. He reached pleadingly into the air as I walked away, asking me not to leave him alone; he was most certainly scared and afraid after being left in an unfamiliar place with a foggy mind.

I talked to the nurse at the counter, and told her of his symptoms. She nodded, and asked for his name.

"Zayn Malik," I told her.

"Do you know any other medical information? His social security number…anything?"

"No, I'm sorry. There can't be too many Zayn Malik's, though."

She typed furiously on her keyboard, clicking and sighing several times before finally appearing to reach what was his file.

"And your name?" she asked.

"Liam Payne," I answered.

"Oh. Good, it looks like we won't need to call his emergency contact, you're already here. The doctor will be out in a minute to get him." My fingers still tapped her desk nervously.

"And don't worry," she said, "He's in good hands." She smiled and I forced a grin back at her, leaving to be with Zayn again. Sitting down next to him, I placed his hand in mine. He clutched it firmly, head still nodding off to his side. A man came through the double-doors across the room moments later, and called Zayn's name. I wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and we staggered, together, through the dimly lit corridor.

Upon reaching an empty room, Zayn was guided to a bed, and the man and I changed him into a gown.

"Now, what are his symptoms?" the man asked. He was tall and husky, his voice deep and carrying a heavy British accent. His speech was somewhat slow, his voice just a bit raspy. He sat down on a padded chair with wheels on its bottom side, a questioning look on his face. He was around the age of twenty-eight, andhad thick, brown, curly hair that fell around his face, brushing it out of his eyes which were a beautiful shade of brown under the phosphorescent lights; he was quite handsome.

"He's confused and has trouble breathing. That's all I can tell."

"Any idea if he's on any other form of drug? Besides alcohol, I mean."

"I- I don't know. I don't think so," I told him.

He stood, not responding to my vague answer. He went through the basic procedures of any patient, struggling to gain Zayn's focus. A few other things were done as well, but I didn't know what they for, or what they even did, really.

"He's dangerously dehydrated, and he is definitely having difficulties getting enough oxygen. It's a good thing you brought him in." He turned to me, "You did the right thing," he said, comforting me.

"Nurse!" he called.

"Yes, Doctor Styles?" she asked. I cracked a faint smile at the thought of Zayn's doctor's last name. In a bizarre way (one of which I did not know why) it fit him.

He ordered her around—not in a rude or demeaning way—to get Zayn on an IV of saline solution. They would monitor his breathing overnight and if anything went wrong, they would be on top of it ASAP. They said it so, so many times.

They must've seen the worry in my eyes for the iniquitous situation that I had caused my former boyfriend.

"You know, you should really go home and get some rest."

I turned to see Doctor Styles, my foot still tapping vigorously against the fluorescently illuminated linoleum floor of the waiting room in the ER.

"No, I…I can't." I said.

"And why is that?" he asked. His hands were in the pockets of his lab coat, which was fully unbuttoned.

"I…this…it's all my fault." A tear slipped down my cheek.

"Hey, no it isn't." He placed a hand on my shoulder, words soothing my shaking body. "Listen," he said, "whatever you did—think you did—you're not the one that ingested the high amount of alcoholic substance."

Was this supposed to be helpful?

"You don't understand."

"Try me," he stated, arms folded in his lap as he took a seat next to me. "I'm on my break, and I'm open to whatever it is you need to spill out."

So that's exactly what I did. The words and the sentences poured from my mouth like a waterfall, and I was surprised that Harry (that was his name, Harry; he informed me of that soon after) stuck around for the whole story. Beginning to the end. Our first meeting, our first date; all up until the breakup and even past the desolate week I had called a life to where I was sitting now. By the closing of my mundane and monotonoustale,Harry had only looked sympathetic.

A nurse then called for him, and apparently his break was over. He stood, dusted off his lab coat, and patted my back one last time. "Don't worry," he told me. "Zayn will be just fine, and things between you two will work out in the end."

There was a reverent wisdom in his voice that eased me and soothed my mood as he headed back to his job, curls bouncing with each step he took.

There was a tapping on my shoulder and I jolted awake.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to startle you…" a female voice said. It was the same nurse I had spoken to the night before, and I realized I was still asleep in the waiting room. My neck was sore, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

"I was coming to let you know that your friend Zayn woke up a few minutes ago. You can see him now…you do know where his room is, right?"

I jumped out of my seat, all tiredness leaving my body as I tore down the hallway of the hospital until I reached Zayn's room. I had forgotten to thank the nurse, but she would understand. I opened the door slowly, and stepped inside.

At first, Zayn hadn't noticed I was there. I stood in the doorway for a minute or two before he acknowledged my presence. He looked up, wondering who was there.

And then his face grew confused. His brow furrowed, a small frown splayed on his lips.

"Liam…why are you here?"

My soul shattered into millions of pieces. He really did not remember anything that happened. No memory of our lustful session on the floor of my apartment, or his transportation to the hospital.

"You, you don't remember anything? At all?" he shook his head, gaze held downwards in embarrassment.

"Well, then. I guess we'll start at the beginning. But the beginning before the…before last night. This past week has been Hell for me. Can we start there?" I asked.

He nodded. I exhaled a sigh of relief, hoping that I could make things right.


	10. Chapter 9

"…And I love you Zayn, I really do. I've never felt this way about anyone else before; ever, and I realized that the moment I walked away from you last weekend. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry and I could never say it enough times." I took his hand in mine, still sitting next to his hospital bed. "I know there's nothing that I can do to take the words back, but believe me: if I could, I would, Zayn. And I just don't know what else to say." My grip over his hand grew tighter, fingers interlacing themselves as I spoke. To hold his hand was so comforting and so missed. The warmth of his hand filled me with a joy that brought tears to my eyes. A smile cracked on my lips as I whispered the words, "I love you."

"Damn it, Li," he said, voice faltering. "I love you, too."

I leaned up to him, a maddening fluttering in my stomach. I pressed my lips to his, and felt the sparks of emotion that erupted from our moving mouths. A click came from the opposite side of the room, and footsteps could be heard. I immediately pulled away, returning to my seat, embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, is now a bad time?" It was Harry.

"No—" Zayn and I said at the same time. I glanced to him and smiled shyly.

"Right, okay. Well," Harry continued. His eyes had bags and his hair was messy. He must have had a long night. "Zayn, you're free to go. But next time you decide to drink…limit yourself. We don't want this happening again," he said, sternly.

Zayn nodded. He sat up, slowly getting off of the bed.

"Uh," he said. "Where are my clothes?"

"We put them…on…this chair." I looked down at the chair I had been sitting in to see that it was barren.

"Sorry hun," I chuckled, "Looks like we're taking you home in that." He pouted and sighed as I took his hand in mine.

We made our way down the corridors of the hospital until we reached the exit. Harry bid us farewell, and told us if we ever needed any help with something medical-related, to give him a call.

"You know," Zayn said, arriving at my car, "I'm glad I got drunk last night."

"And why is that?" I asked.

"Because it brought me back to you."

"Do we really have to talk about this?" Zayn huffed as we entered his flat.

"Yes, Zayn, we do. You can't be drinking again—at least not like that—I don't want you to end up getting hurt."

"Li," he said, removing his smock from the hospital, left in only his underwear. "I'll be fine. It was a one-time thing."

He turned to face me as he unfolded a shirt in his hands. He threw it over his head, letting it fall across his body as he walked into his kitchen.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "Because I'm starved."

"Let me make you something," I told him, making my way to his cupboards. Rather than answer me, he snuck up from behind and wrapped his arms around my waist, swaying us from side to side.

"That's not exactly what I meant" he breathed into my ear. It sent a tingling down my spine and through the rest of my body that drew me in for more. I flipped in his arms and smashed my lips to his. He pushed me back up against the pantry—it was quite uncomfortable really—as he ran one hand through my hair, the other up the small of my back. I had one hand in the back of his hair, the other caressing his face.

It wasn't long before he began to unbutton my plaid shirt, and my boxers were suddenly a size too small. Finally, finally Zayn reached the last button my shirt and tore it off from me. His mouth never left mine, and as he forced his way closer to me, I felt his hard-on press against my leg.

Oh my god, I thought. Is this finally it?

I was flooded with emotions of all sorts. Passion, pleasure, a desire, a deep, deep desire to have his skin pressed against mine for as long as possible. It stirred within me and was released in pants and hot breaths as Zayn and I made our way, clumsily, to his bedroom.

We flicked the light on, collapsing onto the covers of his bed. Lying on top of him, I tore the shirt up and off, over his shoulders, and latched on to his neck. I sucked and bit the delicate skin, and Zayn moaned, low and rough. I worked with my tongue to another spot, and repeated the process, and he groaned in delight.

I trailed down to his nipple, leaving a string of saliva across his hot body. I flicked it with my tongue and fondled it between my fingers as I moved my lips back to his. His kiss was fierce, biting my bottom lip until the metallic taste of blood hit my tongue.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Li, I didn't mean to…" he said, panting.

"It's fine, baby," I said, a smirk across my face. His eyes were dark as I gazed into them, revealing avidity; a thirst for me to continue.

And I was glad to do so.

I placed my hands on his chest, engaging in foreplay with his nipples as I planted kisses up and down his jaw line. His hand was on my back, fingers twitching as his neck tensed. I grinded my pelvis into his, feeling his crotch brush against my own. I made my way down his toned body with my mouth, kissing and licking past his abdomen, reaching the elastic strap of his undergarments. I lifted it up, pulling them down off of Zayn's legs. I had to hold back a gasp at what I saw, because it was just so big.

I stroked his shaft before placing my lips on its tip, and Zayn whimpered as my tongue swirled around it. One arm was now lying on the bed, hand gripping the blankets tightly, the other mangled with my hair.

My head bobbed up and down his length, cheeks hollowing out as my tongue grazed against his skin. Zayn's head lurched back, small cries of gratification buzzing from his lips every few seconds.

"My, my god-L-Li…" he wheezed. "You're so…God…" his words faded into a deep moan. He never finished his sentence, but it didn't matter to me. I stopped, taking a short breath and Zayn's hand guided my face back to his. Our mouths collided, packed with an underlying passion masked by our eager love. We fell into it slowly, perfecting the strokes of our tongues as he wrapped me close to him. I was still on top, grinding my dick against his for an amount of time that was unknown to me. I had gotten lost in the sensuous ecstasy that poured from our bodies and immersed us in an intense heat of bliss; it was the most amazing experience of my life.

And it was nowhere near finished.

We alternated positions, Zayn now above me. He ripped my boxers down my legs and his eyes grew wide. He placed his fingers around my cock and rubbed it painfully slow. He placed his mouth on one of my nipples, tongue working my sensitive nerves to an extent of pleasure I thought never existed. He pushed me to what I thought was close to the edge before stopping. He leaned forward, face centimeters from mine. Both our mouths were open, waiting for him to say what he wanted to say as he breathed into mine.

"Liam," his voice was clear, yet it cracked a bit under his nerves; a bit fearful, even. "I want you inside of me," he whispered.

"Zayn," I said, looking at his now-distressed face. "Are you sure?" I asked.

I hadn't known or even thought that this would happen so quickly. I wanted it, sure, I really, really wanted it, but from what I could tell about Zayn's past, he was still a virgin. Not that I had much experience, but I could remember how afraid I was during my first time. Scared of the pain, the hurting; abashed by the fact that it involved revealing myself to someone else completely. To be exposed entirely was a frightening thing, and I was glad that he trusted me so wholly.

"I'm sure, but Li…" he continued, "Can you please go…slow? It's my first time and I'm scared it's going to hurt…"

"Of course. I would never want to hurt you, Zayn, and if it makes you uncomfortable at all, don't hesitate to tell me. We'll stop, okay?" I kissed his nose softly.

"Okay," he said, grinning shyly. "The lube is in my drawer."

I was surprised that he kept lube on him, but I suppose he knew this day was coming sooner or later. I slid the drawer back, seeing the bottle of gel immediately. It sat atop several unopened condoms, which I grabbed one of. I stepped back to the bed, Zayn lying with his head propped on one elbow, a thin layer of sweat covering his body. God, he looked sexy.

I lay behind him now, popping the cap off the tube and squirting a generous amount of the gel onto my fingers.

"Just relax," I told him, sliding one finger into his back side. My finger pushed slowly forward past the tight ring of muscle that lined his anus, and he tensed.

"Relax," I said once more, kissing him. He instantly eased, body falling limp at the collision of our mouths. I took the opportunity to place another finger into him, making sure that he was coated with lubricant. "Are you ready?" I asked, lifting my face from his.

"More than I'll ever be," he replied. Crunching sounds echoed through the room as I tore the small package open, slipping the condom over my length. I even put more lubricant over that, because I wanted it to be as painless as possible for Zayn.

Even though I knew it would hurt like Hell.

I wrapped my arms around him as I laid down facing his backside, placing my hands around his body and on his chest. I touched the tip of my dick to his ass, barely penetrating him.

"I love you," I whispered as I pushed in further and further. He winced, breathing growing heavy.

"I love you too, Li" he managed to say. I finally had all of my length in, and he grimaced.

"I'm sorry, I…do you want me to stop?"

"N-no," he said. "It's not that bad."

With precision and leisure, I gradually pulled out, and slid back in the same as before. This kept up; me going as slow as possible (the desire to go harder was an aching within me) Zayn flinching and whimpering a bit. It pained me to know that he was hurting, but he had not yet objected to the intimacy. Bit by bit, my motions became faster, my breathing more ragged; and the pleasure overwhelmed me. I was gasping and moaning into Zayn's ear as I caught his lobe between my teeth again and again. I changed the angle of my thrusts, and was glad to hear Zayn's voice.

"Fuck, Li!" he grunted, "Do that again!"

I held him in my arms as I slid in and out of him again and again. Each time he yelled incoherent words back at me, and though I had no idea what he was saying, they still put a smile on my face. That or it was the immense amount of pleasure that was washing over me like never-ending waves in a raging sea.

Between all of the pants and the trickling of sweat, I thought hard about the situation I was in, and how perfect this moment was. With Zayn—boyfriend for over five months—having sex. No; not just sex. We were making love, despite how cheesy it sounded.

And it had been a lot better than my first time.

"Li," he gasped, as I kept at pushing inside of him. "I-it's coming…"

I had been so mesmerized by what I was feeling—the smell of his scent, how his body glistened while drenched in sweat, the way I got lost in his loving eyes as we carried on—that I hadn't even noticed how close I was to blissful release. The revelry had been coursing through my veins all along, of course; heating up and dispensing itself into the air around us; but it was now more evident than ever.

"Fuck!" Zayn yelled, and the sight of his cum shooting on his chest pushed me, too, over the edge. I orgasmed, the warm fluid quickly filling the condom that encased my member. I slowed down to an eventual stop inside of him, and pulled out. I rolled onto my back, arms outstretched above my head, breathless and exhausted as the fatigue cascaded over my body.

I twisted to face my lover, Zayn grinning widely at me. It was easily returned, and I absentmindedly brushed a lock of hair from his face.

"I guess we should get cleaned up…" he said, teeth still showing.

"Yeah," I answered, lethargy afflicting my speech. We cleaned up, together, throwing his sheets in the wash after being soiled. A mutual decision was made that a shower would be needed, and so we made our way to the compact bathroom. He turned the light on, and it lit the tiny space.

He spun the faucet, the shower spraying water over the bathroom floor. The head had been pointing outside of the tub, and he sighed.

"We'll get it later" I laughed.

He made a pouting face at me as he stepped into the shower, grabbing my arm so as to make sure I didn't fall. He closed the curtain, and I let the hot water run down my body as he massaged my shoulders and back. I really thought like I was the one that should be doing the massaging, especially since he had just undergone the tribulations of his first time. But when offered a romantic back-rub, my gesture was denied, and I wasn't in the mood to argue.

His hands worked up and down my body with amazing tenderness, and it did my muscles wonders.

"Jesus, Zayn…" I said sleepily, still under the hot water and the daze of his hands. "You're fucking great at massages. Are you sure you don't want one?" I asked.

His flowing fingers stopped, and his strong, bare arms wrapped tightly around me.

"You've done enough for me in one night, Li…and I mean that. You just made everything so…perfect. It was the best I've ever felt, and that was because of you. And I…" he paused. "I just love you so much."

He nuzzled his head into the crook of the neck, hair plastered against my face from being wet. I felt his eyelashes flutter against my shoulder, and I tapped his forehead lightly. He squinted under the running water, a questioning look on his face.

"Maybe we should get back to bed?"

"Yeah, okay…" he said, yawning.

We dried each other off and walked back to his bed, placing a new set of sheets over the mattress. Zayn jumped in immediately, bringing his knees up and curling the blankets around his body. I slipped under the layers of cotton and instantly felt the permeating warmth of Zayn's body reach into mine. He scooted closer, pulling me into his arms once more. His cheek presed against my shoulder blade and his hair tickled my back.

I fell asleep to the light snores of Zayn at my side and the realization that he loved me, and that I loved him.

I felt Zayn toss and turn in the bed as my eyes blinked open. I squinted as I readjusted to the light that had been left on by mistake. Since he was still sleeping, I stepped out of bed and onto the floor gingerly, so as not to wake him. He needed the rest, especially after being in the hospital and then having sex for the first time.

I tiptoed to his closet; I figured he wouldn't mind me borrowing one of his bath robes. I grabbed a navy blue satin covering that had the initials "ZM" sewn into one of its corners. I shut the door delicately and quietly and advanced to the balcony, pulling back the curtains and taking a view of the outside. I couldn't see any heavy winds about, and decided that I could step outside without any undergarments on, save for the thin piece of silk draped about me.

The air was cool as the sun began to set in the distance. Far off, behind the tall buildings and the colorless walls of landscaping, lay overlapping hills and mountains, where the beams of light seemed to hang. They generated a silhouette of darkness engulfed within a sort of divine radiance; the kind seen in movies that appeared to be impossible to find in real life. I took a seat in one of the unfolded lawn chairs, thoughts drifting to none other than the boy in the other room.

The ambient aura of perfection that was portrayed by the landscapes of the city were crafted by my own notions and beliefs that everything, at the moment, was terrific and without fault. I had completely overlooked the problem of Zayn drinking, and his possible relapse back into his habits tugged at my mind inconveniently; yet I still shoved the thoughts to the back of my mind. I just needed one day without the sorrowful introspections and diluted cogitations that were—at least lately—my pitiful life.

The sliding glass door creaked as it glided across the plastic, and Zayn took a step onto the balcony, sporting one of his many colorful robes inscribed with his own initials. The one he had on was green, and made of the same silky smooth satin material.

"You look cute in my robe," he smirked. "It's fitting on you." I smiled back at him, patting my legs as a gesture that said "Come sit".

He sat down in my lap, cringing as his bum touched my legs. I wrapped my arms around his waist, resting my chin on his shoulder.

"I'm really sorry it hurts," I said. "I wish it didn't. I wish you didn't have to feel the pain."

"Li," he said, "it's okay. Today has been…the best day of my life, and it's all because of you."

He craned his neck to the side, touching his forehead to mine. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment that transcended simple words. It was a feeling too complex and too difficult for even me to understand fully.

Zayn reclined the chair, bringing his knees to his chest as he laid his head against my chest. One arm was wrapped instinctively up and around his back, whilst the other was stroking his hair. He began to snore again, obviously still exhausted, despite the hours of sleep he had gotten just minutes ago.

I stared out at the rising and falling hills once more, contentedly, as Zayn slept in the all-too-cramped chair with me at his side. There was a knocking at Zayn's door, but it couldn't have been meaningful enough that it involved alerting the sleeping boy on top of me.

Nothing was that important


	11. Chapter 10

After about an hour of lying on the balcony, it grew chilly and the cold nipped at my toes. I carried Zayn, who still hadn't woken up, in my arms back to his bedroom. I set him down and tucked him under the covers, and he inherently latched onto the blankets around him. I repressed a laugh as I snuck out of his room, unheard.

I grabbed my phone off of the couch; it must have slipped out of my pockets earlier. The screen lit up as I pressed the Home button, and there were three missed calls from Amy. I figured that if Amy attempted to contact me three times, it must've been something urgent. I stepped into the hall as I dialed her number. She picked up after the first ring.

"Liam!" she yelled into my ear. "You finally answered! And just in time! Listen, can you watch Jackson for a few hours tonight? I know its sudden but—"

"Amy," I said, "I can't. I'm with Zayn right now."

"What? Oh hey did you two work things out? Great, Jackson misses him too. I'll be over in a few! Thanks!" she hung up before I could object any further.

I sighed into the phone and glanced down the hall to where footsteps could now be heard. I saw the bald head of a dark-skinned man, and retreated back to Zayn's apartment within seconds.

"Shit," I swore under my breath. There was no doubt he was coming here, where else would he be going? There was a pounding on the door and I raced to the bedroom to get Zayn, as if that would solve anything. I shook him lightly and he slowly came to.

"Zayn," I whispered to him, "Your dad is here…"

"Mmm, what?" he yawned. "My dad? Oh, shit…"

"What?" I asked.

"Did he come by earlier?" he sat up and stretched his arms. Why was I the only one so nervous?

"I don't know, someone knocked on the door, but I didn't answer it."

"We were supposed to go shopping for a car later; he was going to split the payment with me." He rubbed sleep from his eyes and squinted in the dark, looking up at me. "Don't worry," he said, standing and resting a hand on my back. "Just wait here, I'll get him to leave."

The pounding from the other room was loud still, and rang throughout Zayn's flat. A click could be heard and the door slid across the hardwood floor.

"Where have you been?" his father asked, angry and gruff.

"I've been sleeping…" Zayn said. "I'm sorry, can we just go another time?"

"I finally find a day off for you and this is how you treat me. Ungrateful little prick…" Yaser mumbled.

"Excuse me?" Zayn snapped. "You know, lately, I've been getting tired of your bullshit. I let you back into my life because I thought you missed me, thought you cared. But I'm starting to think that I should've just shoved you away like you did to me, dad." His words were cold.

"You—"

"No; I don't give a flying fuck what you have to say right now! I'm tired, and beyond irritated at what you've caused."

There was a long, drawn-out pause between the two of them.

"You know what." There was a sting and a venom in Zayn's voice that I had never heard from him before as the door slammed.

He appeared in the bedroom seconds later, his lips downward and a crease in his forehead.

"God, I don't know what to do with him anymore. He's just gotten worse lately…"

"What do you mean?"

"Ever since, you know." He motioned with his hands back and forth between the two of us. I held a puzzled look on my face until he continued. "Ever since we broke up, he's been far more demanding. He thinks he can order me around…like he…owns me or something."

"What are you going to do?" I pecked him on the lips, swinging his arms from side to side.

"No idea. But I'll worry about it later, yeah?"

"Right. Do you want me to make you some tea, or coffee or something?"

"I could use some tea. You know how I like it."

He was right; I knew exactly how he liked his tea. Steaming hot and tainted with cream and sugar until its color was that of beige, rather than the deep brown it originally came. I got started right away, heating up the water on the stove in one of his many tea kettles. A ringtone of Adele's Set Fire to the Rain chimed from the couch and Zayn examined the number.

"It's Amy," he said, holding my phone out to me.

"Can you get it for me?" I asked, completely forgetting that I was to babysit tonight. The kettle whistled on the stove as Zayn answered the phone.

"Hello? No, this is Zayn. Liam? Yeah, he's with me. What—no, he's at my flat. Across the hall. Yeah, that one." He hung up the phone and turned to me, an eyebrow raised.

"So we're playing babysitter tonight?" he asked. "Would've been nice to know."

Nothing eventful happened the rest of the evening. Jackson was dropped off, and Zayn and I watched him for a few hours before Amy came back to pick him up. She thanked us before she left, walking swiftly down the hallway. I spent the night at Zayn's, eventually falling asleep at some time in the wee hours of the evening.

***Six Months Later***

It had been eleven months since Zayn and I began dating, and that meant our One Year Anniversary was coming up.

A whole year. I never thought I would be so in love with anyone for such a long time. The way I felt about Zayn never diminished; in fact, it was quite the opposite. I found my affection for him growing with each passing day. We had moved in together, him moving out of his apartment across the hall to mine. The bill was split every month between the two of us, of course, and it was quite enjoyable living with him. There were so many new quirks I discovered about him in the process. Birthdays came and gone for both of us, I now twenty, Zayn twenty-one.

Although, all of that came after Zayn's father was forced back to Bradford by the government, after finding out he was living in the States illegally. The funny thing was—however bad it sounds—is that Zayn himself turned his father in. It was a long story with too many details interwoven throughout its complex plot, and I skipped over it in my mind, returning to the idea of a One Year Anniversary.

My brain drew nothing but a blank as I pondered what to get him for a gift. I already had dinner planned at a restaurant called the Gabriella Café. It certainly wasn't some extravagant and over-the-top cuisine, but as I learned, Santa Cruz wasn't known for luxurious and ravishing dining, either. It had received good reviews online, though, and it was a place Zayn had always wanted to try.

Suddenly, a crazy—insane, even—idea sprung in my mind, and I was out the door in seconds.

The day of our anniversary came faster than I ever imagined, and my palms were sweaty as I waited for Zayn to get home from work. The door opened, and he stepped in, a grin plastered across his face.

"Hey," he said, still smiling as he made his way to me and pecked me on the lips. "Let me go change and then we'll head out." He strutted off into the bedroom, and was out minutes later. He was in a white button-down shirt (white looked stunning on him) and his nicest pair of jeans was on. We had both decided not to dress too formal for the occasion; I in a black button-down shirt, and a pair of jeans as well.

It took us about fifteen minutes to arrive at the restaurant, and the woman at the front desk guided us to our table for the evening. We looked over the menu, and ordered our meals. Our waitress grabbed them, smiled, and walked off.

"I love you," I said, resting my chin in the palm of my hand.

His nose crinkled a bit before he replied, "I love you too," and took my hand in his. "Li," he said, "Your hand is so clammy. Are you all right?"

My heart began to beat faster and faster and I worried that Zayn could hear the drumming within my chest.

"It's just…one whole year, you know? It's a long time. And every day, and I mean every day, I just fall in love with you more and more."

"You're so cheesy," he chuckled. "But your romanticism is what makes you so adorable."

Our waitress set the dishes down on the table, steam spewing out of the foods that sat upon them. Everything seemed to be going well; food was here, Zayn was happy, I was happy, and he hadn't questioned my strange demeanor too much. He grinned up at me after his first bite, jaw clenching as he chewed. That was one of the great things about him; how his whole face exuded a joy that was like no other when he smiled.

"This is delicious," he said between his next bite, and then slid it in with his fork.

"It really is," I agreed.

The rest of the evening was perfect. We both devoured our meals like animals, stomachs brimming with delectable food. We chatted even after our meal was over, sitting at the table like love-struck fools. When the waitress finally pestered us to leave (the restaurant was filling up and tables were needed), we left the café.

"I'm in the mood for coffee," I told him, falling into the seat of the driver's side of my car, flaring up the ignition.

"I could use one, too," he said. "I'm going to need the energy for later," he winked. I laughed at his sexual innuendo and drove to the Starbucks nearest our apartment complex.

The winds were cold as we stepped out onto the streets of Santa Cruz, gazing at the tall, colorful buildings. By day, it was certainly not a beautiful piece of landscape, but by night, the shadows casted by the glows and flashing hues of the city lights were beyond anything I had ever seen. I paused, tugging at Zayn's arm to stop and enjoy the view with me. He wrapped his arms around my torso, his warm breath tickling my neck.

"Isn't it beautiful?" I asked.

"I've seen better," he said.

I twisted out of his arms and faced him, a look of disbelief spread across my face.

"No you haven't," I accused. "Where?"

"Li, I was referring to you…" he said, holding back laughter. "You're such a dork," he punched my arm playfully. He cracked, his low voice rumbling through the night and getting lost in the sounds of the city. I joked along with him, hand now rubbing the dark velvet box that sat in my pocket. It felt leaden and heavy, and it struck me that it was time to introduce my real anniversary gift. The moment I had been waiting so long for.

But how did I do it? What did I say? I had seen it happen in movies a million times, so why was I freezing up now? What if he said no? Oh god, what if he said no…

"Li," his voice shocked me back to reality. "You coming inside or not?" He held the door open, a quizzical look on his face.

"Wait, Zayn, come here." I said, my tone growing serious. He picked up on it, obviously—he always did—and walked over to me cautiously.

"I can't believe I'm doing this, Zayn…" I paused. His face contorted with worry, dreadful of what he thought was coming next.

"Oh my god, you're breaking up with me, aren't you? Oh my god."

"Zayn, no!" I exclaimed. "No, not at all…I-just…" I exhaled a deep breath.

"C'mon, Li, you can tell me anything." He lifted my chin with his fingers and held my gaze, restoring my confidence fully. My legs stopped shaking, my hands stopped trembling. I reached for the box in my pocket, securing my grasp around it. Here goes, I thought.

I brought the box out of my pocket as my knee drifted toward the ground, leg outstretched and heel scraping the concrete. I unclasped my hand, the small black object now in sight. I popped the top up, the hinges clicking into place. A round, silver ring sat in its center, glittering in the radiant lights.

Zayn's hand traveled up to his mouth, covering it incredulously.

"Zayn, I want to spend the rest of my life with you…so…will you marry me?" I asked.

Pause.

"Yes! Oh, God, yes, Li!" he yelled, smashing his body and his lips against mine as I stood up. There were a few whistles and cheers from several of the people that passed by as Zayn twirled me in his arms. My feet lifted from the ground, committing to memory the happiest day of my life. Once he set me down, I slid the ring across his finger.

"It's a perfect fit," he said. "I love you," his voice was exasperated and his tone loving. I could see in his eyes the excitement he felt by the way they shone in the night. He kissed me once, twice, three times before pulling his face from mine, still holding it in his hands.

"I was so afraid you would say no," I told him.

"Actually," he said, laughing nervously, "I was thinking the same thing." He pulled from his pants a box similar to mine, and it made the same click sound as it opened. I gasped as he slid the ring over my finger; he really did want to marry me. My eyes were blurred with tears and a few slipped across my cheek, Zayn wiping them away with his thumb.

"Hey, don't cry…" he said, comforting me.

"I'm just so happy," I sniffled.

Zayn and I were getting married.


	12. Chapter 11

I stood, the dew-tipped grass blades leaving their droplets against the bare skin of my leg. My pants were rumpled and crinkled, exposing my ankle. There was a low hanging, impenetrable mist suspended in the air, the sun's light barely pilfering through in thin rays that threatened to expose the obscured, black thing in front of me.

The rolling hills in the distance were nothing more than a simple outline against a foreground of deep gray. I was aware that trees surrounded me—us—but I could not see them. I could only hear their branches swaying in the wind as leaves were plucked from their limbs, carried away in the fresh winds of October. They were oranges and reds and yellows; a beautiful, little thing I would have picked up on if I wasn't so limp.

I was frozen; paralyzed, with shock. My body was numb and my mind was foggy, my judgment clouded and my thoughts disoriented. I could do nothing but shake and tremble as people around me cried and sobbed, "I miss him"s stifling through the air.

Why wasn't I crying? Why couldn't I feel anything? My heart still pumped blood, and my lungs still inhaled oxygen, so why was I feeling so distraught, so inhuman?

So detached from my surroundings?

I could not bring myself to focus on anything; not the water that trickled down my neck or the words that were being spoken.

"…and he will be missed," was all I heard.

My eyes adjusted to the sight of Amy stepping as a shadow back towards the people, along with me, that lined the field in the cemetery. Head stones and plaques lay scattered across the ground, words of indistinct origin inscribed upon them. I felt so alone here in this place, so torn and in such agony. I could feel now.

Yes, I could definitely feel, but I soon wished I hadn't.

For all there was to experience was a rooted suffering and anguish that plagued my soul. Emotions of all sorts began to bubble up inside of me, releasing themselves in sobs and cries and convulsions. Amy quickly rushed over to me, wrapping her arms around my back just as I began to sink to the ground.

"It's okay," she whispered, "It's going to be okay…shh…"

"No," I croaked in-between whimpers. "No, it's not!" I howled, collapsing in her arms.

The ground was cold against my thin, silky slacks as I continued to weep. My knees were bent up, arms encasing them. I was rocking myself back and forth, Amy kneeling on her heels and rubbing my back. She spoke to me (or tried to, at least), and did her best to comfort me. I tore my hands through my battered and messy hair, ripping out several strands in the process. I clawed at my arms, nails digging through my suit and scratching at the soft flesh. I was still rocking back and forth, and I could sense that all eyes were staring at me.

Enough light was visible and the sight in front of me became clear. A dark, wooden casket was being raised above a deep, rectangular hole in the ground.

"No!" I screamed, racing towards the burial area, Amy trying to hold me back. I skidded to a halt, dirt flying through the air as I almost fell face first, into the pit.

"Please," I begged, "Just let me see him. I didn't get a chance to,"

"Sir, it's too late for that," a man dressed in black clothing said.

"Please" I pleaded, "I just need to see him one last time…I…please…" my voice faltered, fading into nothingness as more tears welled up in my eyes.

The several men surrounding the coffin exchanged skeptical glances before making their way back towards the stand that held the tomb above the ground. They unclasped the latches, lifting the lid high. I peered into the case, tears flowing from my eyes.

"Zayn…" I muttered, bringing a hand to cover my mouth as my heart shattered into pieces. The liquid that poured from my eyes fell, landing on his gray tuxedo and forming a pattern of randomized, contingent dark spots.

And yet he still looked so beautiful, even in his time after the life had been sucked out of him. His hair was down against his forehead, his hazel eyes staring up at me. His tanned skin was paler than it had been, I noticed, and bruises dotted his body.

I couldn't bear to see him like this. Not here—hell, not anywhere—and not now. Not when we had come so close to our dreams, nearly making a life together our own reality. He was the most amazing and astounding man I had ever met. He had the best personality, and the best…everything.

My heart ached as I reached up to my coat pocket, feeling around for the silver ring. I gripped it in my hands, pulling it out of my tuxedo. I twirled it around in my fingers, eyeing its circumference carefully. Strings of remorse tugged at my brain and stabbed at my core.

My entire body shook with pain and an empty hand clutched the edge of the coffin. My head lowered, jaw clenched and legs weak.

I was in that position for an amount of time that was unknown to me. It was silent as I trembled in front of the crowd that had gathered.

I finally regained enough control over my actions to be able to stand without holding onto the box of death that sat in front of me. I stared at Zayn, taking his hand in mine and raising it. I slid the ring over his finger just as I had done weeks before, hardly able to keep my hand steady in the process.

I placed his arms back against his chest, and before turning on my heel, brushed his eyelids closed. My eyes were swollen, burning with misery as I walked past the group of people, looks following and heads turning as I went. Normally Amy would have chased after me, but she only had a hand outstretched, wavering in the distance.

Somehow the sun managed to break through the layering of clouds that covered the morning sky. Light shone at all angles now, casting shadows against the street as I shuffled down the road. Cars whistled by, subtle reminders of Zayn's death.

I held my hands in my pants' pockets, balled up into fists as I carried on, pangs of guilt and anger jabbing at my thoughts.

He was dead, and he was gone. And I was all alone.

Thank you to everyone who read the story, I hope it was enjoyable. Reviews of any feedback/ criticisms, no matter how harsh, are always welcome. :)


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